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Cocaine ......................................... Aleister Crowley 291

In the Red Room of Rose Croix .............................. 294
The Scrutinies of Simon Iff. No. 2. The Artistic
Temperament ................................. Edward Kelly 295
A Perfect Pianissimo .................... Aleister Crowley 301
The Revival of Magick ............ The Master Therion 302
An African Love Song ................... Charles Beadle 304
The Discovery of Gneugh-Ioughrck ....................... 305
Absinthe ..................................... Jeanne la Goulue 306
Last Night ......................................... Faith Baldwin 306
Groans From the Padded Cell ................................. 307
Love Is One ............................................................. 309
The Argument That Took the Wrong Turning ....... 309
The Burning of Melcarth ...................... Mark Wells 310
Confessions of a Barbarian, ....................................
George Sylvester Viereck 313
The Spirit of the Strong ............... Aleister Crowley 315
Two Prose Poems ............................ Helen Woljeska 316
Quelque Chose (Some Shows) ................................ 317
The Gate of Knowledge .......................................... 318
The Ouija Board ...................... The Master Therion 319
War Poetry ......................................... Enid Parsons 319
The International Forum ......................................... 320
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VOL. XI. NO. 10.



There is a happy land, far, far, away.
[We disagree with our gifted contributing editor on some points, but nevertheless we regard this article as one of the most important studies of
the deleterious effects of a drug that, according to police statistics, is beginning to be a serious menace to our youth. Ed.]

Of all the Graces that cluster about the throne of Venus the
most timid and elusive is that maiden whom mortals call Happiness. None is so eagerly pursued; none is so hard to win. Indeed, only the saints and martyrs, unknown usually to their fellow-men, have made her theirs; and they have attained her by
burning out the Ego-sense in themselves with the white-hot steel
of meditation, by dissolving themselves in that divine ocean of
Consciousness whose foam is passionless and perfect bliss.
To others, Happiness only comes as by chance; when least
sought, perhaps she is there. Seek, and ye shall not find; ask,
and ye shall not receive; knock, and it shall not be opened unto
you. Happiness is always a divine accident. It is not a definite
quality; it is the bloom of circumstances. It is useless to mix its
ingredients; the experiments in life which have produced it in
the past may be repeated endlessly, and with infinite skill and
variety in vain.
It seems more than a fairy story that so metaphysical an entity should yet be producible in a moment by no means of wisdom, no formula of magic, but by a simple herb. The wisest
man cannot add happiness to others, though they be dowered
with youth, beauty, wealth, health, wit and love; the lowest blackguard shivering in rags, destitute, diseased, old, craven, stupid,
a mere morass of envy, may have it with one swift-sucked breath.
The thing is as paradoxical as life, as mystical as death.
Look at this shining heap of crystals! They are Hydrochloride
of Cocaine. The geologist will think of mica; to me, the mountaineer, they are like those gleaming feathery flakes of snow,
flowering mostly where rocks jut from the ice of crevassed glaciers, that wind and sun have kissed to ghostliness. To those

who know not the great hills, they may suggest the snow that
spangles trees with blossoms glittering and lucid. The kingdom
of faery has such jewels. To him who tastes them in his nostrils
to their acolyte and slave they must seem as if the dew of
the breath of some great demon of Immensity were frozen by
the cold of space upon his beard.
For there was never any elixir so instant magic as cocaine.
Give it to no matter whom. Choose me the last losel on the
earth; let him suffer all the tortures of disease; take hope, take
faith, take love away from him. Then look, see the back of that
worn hand, its skin discolored and wrinkled, perhaps inflamed
with agonizing eczema, perhaps putrid with some malignant
sore. He places on it that shimmering snow, a few grains only, a
little pile of starry dust. The wasted arm is slowly raised to the
head that is little more than a skull; the feeble breath draws in
that radiant powder. Now we must wait. One minute perhaps five minutes.
Then happens the miracle of miracles, as sure as death, and
yet as masterful as life; a thing more miraculous, because so
sudden, so apart from the usual course of evolution. Natura non
facit saltum nature never makes a leap. True therefore
this miracle is a thing as it were against nature.
The melancholy vanishes; the eyes shine; the wan mouth
smiles. Almost manly vigor returns, or seems to return. At least
faith, hope and love throng very eagerly to the dance; all that
was lost is found.
The man is happy.
To one the drug may bring liveliness, to another languor; to
another creative force, to another tireless energy, to another
glamor, and to yet another lust. But each in his way is happy.




Think of it! so simple and so transcendental! The man is

I have traveled in every quarter of the globe; I have seen such
wonders of Nature that my pen yet splutters when I try to tell
them; I have seen many a miracle of the genius of man; but I
have never seen a marvel like to this.
Is there not a school of philosophers, cold and cynical, that
accounts God to be a mocker? That thinks He takes His pleasure in contempt of the littleness of His creatures? They should
base their theses on cocaine! For here is bitterness, irony, cruelty ineffable. This gift of sudden and sure happiness is given
but to tantalize. The story of Job holds no such acrid draught.
What were more icy hate, fiend comedy than this, to offer such
a boon, and add This you must not take? Could not we be left
to brave the miseries of life, bad as they are, without this master pang, to know perfection of all joy within our reach, and the
price of that joy a tenfold quickening of our anguish?
The happiness of cocaine is not passive or placid as that of
beasts; it is self-conscious. It tells man what he is, and what he
might be; it offers him the semblance of divinity, only that he
may know himself a worm. It awakes discontent so acutely that
never shall it sleep again. It creates hunger. Give cocaine to a
man already wise, schooled to the world, morally forceful, a
man of intelligence and self-control. If he be really master of
himself, it will do him no harm. He will know it for a snare; he
will beware of repeating such experiments as he may make;
and the glimpse of his goal may possibly even spur him to its
attainment by those means which God has appointed for His
But give it to the clod, to the self-indulgent, to the blas to
the average man, in a word and he is lost. He says, and his
logic is perfect; This is what I want. He knows not, neither can
know, the true path; and the false path is the only one for him.
There is cocaine at his need, and he takes it again and again.
The contrast between his grub life and his butterfly life is too
bitter for his unphilosophic soul to bear; he refuses to take the
brimstone with the treacle.
And so he can no longer tolerate the moments of unhappiness; that is, of normal life; for he now so names it. The intervals between his indulgences diminish.
And alas! the power of the drug diminishes with fearful pace.
The doses wax; the pleasures wane. Side-issues, invisible at
first, arise; they are like devils with flaming pitchforks in their
A single trial of the drug brings no noticeable reaction in a
healthy man. He goes to bed in due season, sleeps well, and
wakes fresh. South American Indians habitually chew this drug
in its crude form, when upon the march, and accomplish prodigies, defying hunger, thirst, and fatigue. But they only use it in
extremity; and long rest with ample food enables the body to
rebuild its capital. Also, savages, unlike most dwellers in cities, have moral sense and force.
The same is true of the Chinese and Indians in their use of
opium. Every one uses it, and only in the rarest cases does it
become a vice. It is with them almost as tobacco is with us.
But to one who abuses cocaine for his pleasure nature soon
speaks; and is not heard. The nerves weary of the constant stimulation; they need rest and food. There is a point at which the

jaded horse no longer answers whip and spur. He stumbles,

falls a quivering heap, gasps out his life.
So perishes the slave of cocaine. With every nerve clamoring, all he can do is to renew the lash of the poison. The pharmaceutical effect is over; the toxic effect accumulates. The nerves
become insane. The victim begins to have hallucinations. See!
There is a grey cat in that chair. I said nothing, but it has been
there all the time.
Or, there are rats. I love to watch them running up the curtains. Oh yes! I know they are not real rats. Thats a real rat,
though, on the floor. I nearly killed it that time. That is the
original rat I saw; its a real rat. I saw it first on my window-sill
one night.
Such, quietly enough spoken, is mania. And soon the pleasure passes; is followed by its opposite, as Eros by Anteros.
Oh no! they never come near me. A few days pass, and
they are crawling on the skin, gnawing interminably and intolerably, loathsome and remorseless.
It is needless to picture the end, prolonged as this may be, for
despite the baffling skill developed by the drug-lust, the insane
condition hampers the patient, and often forced abstinence for a
while goes far to appease the physical and mental symptoms.
Then a new supply is procured, and with tenfold zest the maniac, taking the bit between his teeth, gallops to the black edge
of death.
And before that death come all the torments of damnation.
The time-sense is destroyed, so that an hours abstinence may
hold more horrors than a century of normal time-and-space-bound
Psychologists little understand how the physiological cycle
of life, and the normality of the brain, make existence petty
both for good and ill. To realize it, fast for a day or two; see how
life drags with a constant subconscious ache. With drug hunger,
this effect is multiplied a thousandfold. Time itself is abolished;
the real metaphysical eternal hell is actually present in the consciousness which has lost its limits without finding Him who is
without limit.
Much of this is well known; the dramatic sense has forced
me to emphasize what is commonly understood, because of the
height of the tragedy or of the comedy, if one have that power
of detachment from mankind which we attribute only to the
greatest of men, to the Aristophanes, the Shakespeares, the
Balzacs, the Rabelais, the Voltaires, the Byrons, that power
which makes poets at one time pitiful of the woes of men, at
another gleefully contemptuous of their discomfitures.
But I should wiselier have emphasized the fact that the very
best men may use this drug, and many another, with benefit to
themselves and to humanity. Even as the Indians of whom I
spoke above, they will use it only to accomplish some work
which they could not do without it. I instance Herbert Spencer,
who took morphine daily, never exceeding an appointed dose.
Wilkie Collins, too, overcame the agony of rheumatic gout with
laudanum, and gave us masterpieces not surpassed.
Some went too far. Baudelaire crucified himself, mind and
body, in his love for humanity; Verlaine became at last the slave
where he had been so long the master. Francis Thompson killed
himself with opium; so did Edgar Allan Poe. James Thomson
did the same with alcohol. The cases of de Quincey and H. G.


Ludlow are lesser, but similar, with laudanum and hashish, respectively. The great Paracelsus, who discovered hydrogen, zinc
and opium, deliberately employed the excitement of alcohol,
counterbalanced by violent physical exercise, to bring out the
powers of his mind.
Coleridge did his best while under opium, and we owe the
loss of the end of Kubla Khan to the interruption of an importunate man from Porlock, ever accursed in the history of the
human race!
Consider the debt of mankind to opium. It is acquitted by the
deaths of a few wastrels from its abuse?
For the importance of this paper is the discussion of the practical question: should drugs be accessible to the public?
Here I pause in order to beg the indulgence of the American
people. I am obliged to take a standpoint at once startling and
unpopular. I am compelled to utter certain terrible truths. I am
in the unenviable position of one who asks others to shut their
eyes to the particular that they may thereby visualize the general.
But I believe that in the matter of legislation America is proceeding in the main upon a totally false theory. I believe that
constructive morality is better than repression. I believe that
democracy, more than any other form of government, should
trust the people, as it specifically pretends to do.
Now it seems to me better and bolder tactics to attack the
opposite theory at its very strongest point.
It should be shown that not even in the most arguable case is
a government justified in restricting use on account of abuse; or
allowing justification, let us dispute about expediency.
So, to the bastion should habit forming drugs be accessible to the public?
The matter is of immediate interest; for the admitted failure
of the Harrison Law has brought about a new proposal one to
make bad worse.
I will not here argue the grand thesis of liberty. Free men
have long since decided it. Who will maintain that Christs willing sacrifice of his life was immoral, because it robbed the State
of a useful taxpayer?
No; a mans life is his own, and he has the right to destroy it
as he will, unless he too egregiously intrude on the privileges of
his neighbors.
But this is just the point. In modern times the whole community is ones neighbor, and one must not damage that. Very good;
then there are pros and cons, and a balance to be struck.
In America the prohibition idea in all things is carried, mostly
by hysterical newspapers, to a fanatical extreme. Sensation at
any cost by Sunday next is the equivalent in most editorial
rooms of the alleged German order to capture Calais. Hence the
dangers of anything and everything are celebrated
dithyrambically by the Corybants of the press, and the only remedy is prohibition. A shoots B with a revolver; remedy, the
Sullivan law. In practice, this works well enough; for the law is
not enforced against the householder who keeps a revolver for
his protection, but is a handy weapon against the gangster, and
saves the police the trouble of proving felonious intent.
But it is the idea that was wrong. Recently a man shot his
family and himself with a rifle fitted with a Maxim silencer.
Remedy, a bill to prohibit Maxim silencers! No perception that,


if the man had not had a weapon at all, he would have strangled
his family with his hands.
American reformers seem to have no idea, at any time or in
any connection, that the only remedy for wrong is right; that
moral education, self-control, good manners, will save the world;
and that legislation is not merely a broken reed, but a suffocating vapor. Further, an excess of legislation defeats its own ends.
It makes the whole population criminals, and turns them all
into policemen and police spies. The moral health of such a
people is ruined for ever; only revolution can save it.
Now in America the Harrison law makes it theoretically impossible for the layman, difficult even for the physician, to obtain narcotic drugs. But every other Chinese laundry is a distributing centre for cocaine, morphia, and heroin. Negroes and
street peddlers also do a roaring trade. Some people figure that
one in every five persons in Manhattan is addicted to one or
other of these drugs. I can hardly believe this estimate, though
the craving for amusement is maniacal among this people who
have so little care for art, literature, or music, who have, in
short, none of the resources that the folk of other nations, in
their own cultivated minds, possess.
It was a very weary person, that hot Summer afternoon in
1909, who tramped into Logroo. Even the river seemed too
lazy to flow, and stood about in pools, with its tongue hanging
out, so to speak. The air shimmered softly; in the town the terraces of the cafs were thronged with people. They had nothing
to do, and a grim determination to do it. They were sipping the
rough wine of the Pyrenees, or the Riojo of the South well watered, or toying with bocks of pale beer. If any of them could
have read Major-General ORyans address to the American
soldier, they would have supposed his mind to be affected.
Alcohol, whether you call it beer, wine, whisky, or by any
other name, is a breeder of inefficiency. While it affects men
differently, the results are the same, in that all affected by it
cease for the time to be normal. Some become forgetful, others quarrelsome. Some become noisy, some get sick, some
get sleepy, others have their passions greatly stimulated.
As for ourselves, we were on the march to Madrid. We were
obliged to hurry. A week, or a month, or a year at most, and we
must leave Logroo in obedience to the trumpet call of duty.
However, we determined to forget it, for the time. We sat
down, and exchanged views and experiences with the natives.
From the fact that we were hurrying, they adjudged us to be
anarchists, and were rather relieved at our explanation that we
were mad Englishmen. And we were all happy together; and
I am still kicking myself for a fool that I never went on to Madrid.
If one is at a dinner party in London or New York, one is
plunged into an abyss of dullness. There is no subject of general interest; there is no wit; it is like waiting for a train. In
London one overcomes ones environment by drinking a bottle
of champagne as quickly as possible; in New York one piles in
cocktails. The light wines and beers of Europe, taken in moderate measure, are no good; there is not time to be happy, so one
must be excited instead. Dining alone, or with friends, as opposed to a party, one can be quite at ease with Burgundy or
Bordeaux. One has all night to be happy, and one does not have
to speed. But the regular New Yorker has not time even for a
dinner-party! He almost regrets the hour when his office closes.




His brain is still busy with his plans. When he wants pleasure, he calculates that he can spare just half an hour for it. He
has to pour the strongest liquors down his throat at the greatest
possible rate.
Now imagine this man or this woman slightly hampered; the time available slightly curtailed. He can no longer
waste ten minutes in obtaining pleasure; or he dare not drink
openly on account of other people. Well, his remedy is simple;
he can get immediate action out of cocaine. There is no smell;
he can be as secret as any elder of the church can wish.
The mischief of civilization is the intensive life, which demands intensive stimulation. Human nature requires pleasure;
wholesome pleasures require leisure; we must choose between
intoxication and the siesta. There are no cocaine fiends in
Moreover, in the absence of a Climate, life demands a Conversation; we must choose between intoxication and cultivation
of the mind. There are no drug-fiends among people who are
primarily pre-occupied with science and philosophy, art and literature.
However, let us concede the prohibitionist claims. Let us admit
the police contention that cocaine and the rest are used by criminals who would otherwise lack the nerve to operate; they also
contend that the effects of the drugs are so deadly that the cleverest thieves quickly become inefficient. Then for Heavens sake
establish depots where they can get free cocaine!
You cannot cure a drug fiend; you cannot make him a useful
citizen. He never was a good citizen, or he would not have fallen
into slavery. If you reform him temporarily, at vast expense,
risk, and trouble, your whole work vanishes like morning mist
when he meets his next temptation. The proper remedy is to let
him gang his ain gait to the deil. Instead of less drug, give him
more drug, and be done with him. His fate will be a warning to
his neighbors, and in a year or two people will have the sense to
shun the danger. Those who have not, let them die, too, and
save the state. Moral weaklings are a danger to society, in whatever line their failings lie. If they are so amiable as to kill themselves, it is a crime to interfere.
You say that while these people are killing themselves they
will do mischief. Maybe; but they are doing it now.
Prohibition has created an underground traffic, as it always
does; and the evils of this are immeasurable. Thousands of citizens are in league to defeat the law; are actually bribed by the
law itself to do so, since the profits of the illicit trade become
enormous, and the closer the prohibition, the more unreasonably big they are. You can stamp out the use of silk handkerchiefs in this way: people say, All right; well use linen. But
the cocaine fiend wants cocaine; and you cant put him off
with Epsom salts. Moreover, his mind has lost all proportion;
he will pay anything for his drug; he will never say, I cant
afford it; and if the price be high, he will steal, rob, murder to
get it. Again I say: you cannot reform a drug fiend; all you do by
preventing them from obtaining it is to create a class of subtle
and dangerous criminals; and even when you have jailed them
all, is any one any the better?
While such large profits (from one thousand to two thousand
per cent.) are to be made by secret dealers, it is to the interest of
those dealers to make new victims. And the profits at present

are such that it would be worth my while to go to London and

back first class to smuggle no more cocaine than I could hide in
the lining of my overcoat! All expenses paid, and a handsome
sum in the bank at the end of the trip! And for all the law, and
the spies, and the rest of it, I could sell my stuff with very little
risk in a single night in the Tenderloin.
Another point is this. Prohibition cannot be carried to its extreme. It is impossible, ultimately, to withhold drugs from doctors. Now doctors, more than any other single class, are drug
fiends; and also, there are many who will traffic in drugs for the
sake of money or power. If you possess a supply of the drug, you
are the master, body and soul, of any person who needs it.
People do not understand that a drug, to its slave, is more
valuable than gold or diamonds; a virtuous woman may be above
rubies, but medical experience tells us that there is no virtuous
woman in need of the drug who would not prostitute herself to
a rag-picker for a single sniff.
And if it be really the case that one-fifth of the population
takes some drug, then this long little, wrong little island is in
for some very lively times.
The absurdity of the prohibitionist contention is shown by
the experience of London and other European cities. In London
any householder or apparently responsible person can buy any
drug as easily as if it were cheese; and London is not full of
raving maniacs, snuffing cocaine at every street corner, in the
intervals of burglary, rape, arson, murder, malfeasance in office, and misprision of treason, as we are assured must be the
case if a free people are kindly allowed to exercise a little freedom.
Or, if the prohibitionist contention be not absurd, it is a comment upon the moral level of the people of the United States
which would have been righteously resented by the Gadarene
swine after the devils had entered into them.
I am not here concerned to protest on their behalf; allowing
the justice of the remark, I still say that prohibition is no cure.
The cure is to give the people something to think about; to develop their minds; to fill them with ambitions beyond dollars;
to set up a standard of achievement which is to be measured in
terms of eternal realities; in a word, to educate them.
If this appear impossible, well and good; it is only another
argument for encouraging them to take cocaine.


The bleeding gate of God unveils its rose;
The cavernous West swallows the dragon Sun;
Earths darkness broods on dissolution,
A mother-vulture, nested on Repose.
Ah then! what grace within our girdle glows,
What crimson web of will-work, wizard-spun
To garb thy glee-gilt heart, Hilarion,
An Alpenbluehn on our star-crested snows!
O scarlet flower, smear honey on the thigh
Of this thy bee, that sucks thy sweetness dry!
O bower of sunset, bring me to thy sleep
Wherein move dreams stained purple with perfumes,
Whose birds of paradise, on Punic plumes,
Declare dooms undecipherably deep!





No. 2 The Artistic Temperament
Jack Flynn was the centre of a happy group of artists. They
were seated upon the terrace of the Caf dAlenon to drink
the apritif; for although November was upon Paris, the Sun
still remembered his beloved city, and fed it with light and
Flynn had come over from London for a week to see the
Autumn Salon, and to gossip with his old friends. The conversation was naturally of Art, and, like the universe itself, had
neither beginning nor end, being self-created by its own energy, so rolled easily through the Aeons in every combination
of beauty.
But half of beauty is melancholy, a subtle subcurrent of sadness; and on this particular occasion it was visible, giving a
grey tone to the most buoyant rhapsodies. The talkers were in
fact subdued and restrained; each spoke gaily, yet stood upon
his guard, as if there were some subject near his consciousness which he must be careful not to broach.
It was a curiously distinguished group. Two of the men wore
the Lgion dHonneur; the elder of the two, who looked more
like a soldier or a diplomat than a painter, seemed to be the
object of constant solicitude on the part of the younger, whose
ruddy, cheerful, ironic face was like a picture by Franz Hals
but a Franz Hals in the mood of Rabelais. He seemed particularly anxious lest the other should say something unfortunate, but he should really have been looking round the corner,
for there was where the danger lay.
Round that corner, all arms and legs, came swinging the
agile body of no less a person than the mystic, Simon Iff.
His first greeting was the bombshell! Ah ha! he cried,
grasping the hand of the elder of the two dcors, and hows
the dear old Sea? For the person addressed happened to be
famous all over the world as a marine painter. The younger
man sprang to his feet. Just dont mention the sea, please, for
a few months! he said in Simons ear. It was unnecessary.
Even in the general joy at the return of an old friend, Iffs
quick apprehension could not fail to detect a suppressed spasm
of pain on every face.
The mystic turned and greeted the man who had interrupted
him with honest gladness; then his other hand shot out to Flynn.
Ive been out of the world all summer, he cried, shaking
hands all round, in a hermitage after my own heart. Fancy a
castle dating from the crusades, on the very edge of a glacier,
and every practicable route barred against the world, the flesh,
and the devil, in the shape of tourists, tables dhte, and newspapers! You look thirty! declared one of the men. And I
feel twenty, laughed the magician; what do you say to a little
dinner at Laprouse? I want to walk across the Luxembourg to
a feast, as Ive done any time these fifty years!
As it happened, only two of the party were free; Major, the
young man with the button, and Jack Flynn.
After some quiet chat the three strolled off together, arm in
arm, down the Boulevard Montparnasse.
When they reached the Avenue de lObservatoire, they
turned down that noble grove. Here, at all hours of day and

night, is a stately solitude. Intended for gaiety, devised as a

symbol of gaiety by the most frivolous age of all time, it has
become by virtue of age the very incarnation of melancholy
grandeur. It seems almost to lament that eighteenth century
which fathered it.
Before they had passed into this majesty more than an hundred yards, the mystic said abruptly: Whats the trouble?
Havent you really seen a paper for six months? countered Flynn.
Of course I havent. You know my life; you know that I
retire, whenever I am able, from this nightmare illusion of
matter to a world of reality. So tell me your latest evil dream!
Evil enough! said Major, it doesnt actually touch us,
but its a narrow escape. We only heard the climax three days
ago; so its a green wound, you see.
Yet it doesnt touch you.
No; but it touches Art, and thats me, all right!
Will you tell me the story?
Ill leave that to Flynn. Hes been on the trail all the time.
I was even at the trial, said Flynn.
Come, come, laughed Iff, all these riddles.
Ill make them clear enough all but the one. Now, no
interruptions! I have the thing orderly in my mind.
Five: four: three: two: one: gun!
The place is a small rocky islet off the west coast of Scotland, by name Dubhbheagg. A few fisher-folk live there; nobody else. There is one landing-place, and one only, even in
calm weather; in a storm it is inaccessible altogether. Overlooking this quay is a house perched on the cliff; an old stone
mansion. The proprietor is one of our sacred guild, and spends
most of his time in Central Asia or Central Africa or Central
America or Central Australia anything to be central!
and he lets the house to any one who is fool enough to pay the
This summer it was rented by the president of the Royal
Whats that? said Iff, sharply.
The Royal Academy, explained Flynn, is an institution
devised by divine Providence for the detection of British Artists. It brings them into notice by ostentatiously rejecting their
works. The president is Lord Cudlipp.
Wasnt he a Joseph Thorne, or some such name? asked
Simon Iff.
Thornton, I think. Ennobled thirteen years ago, corrected
It was Thornley, insisted the sculptor, Major.
Yes, Thornley; I remember now. I know him slightly; and I
knew his father before him; an M. P. and a biscuit manufacturer, exclaimed the mystic.
A pity the son didnt follow the father, murmured Major.
I feel sure that his biscuits would have been delightful!
Youre interrupting the court, protested the editor. To
proceed. Here we have Cudlipp in the Big House of
Dubhbheagg, with a man and wife to cook for him, both old
servants, with him thirty years. There are also his son Harry




his daughter Eleanor, her companion-maid, and a man from

the Quarter!
This Quarter?
Up in Montrouge his studio is, I think, one of those lost
cottages with a garden in the middle of a block of houses.
Well, this man, or rather boy, hes not 20 yet, is, or wants to
be, a marine painter like Cudlipp
God forbid! groaned Major.
Shut up! the boys name is Andr de Bry; hes half French,
half English, I believe, a pretty hot combination.
So Ive noticed, remarked Iff, as they turned into
Laprouse, crept up the narrow stair, and found a table by the
window in the Salle des Miroirs.
Harry and Eleanor were born seventeen years ago,
Which is dead? interrupted Iff. The others stared.
Excuse an old mans vanity! laughed the mystic. I really
have to show off sometimes! You see, I know Jacks passion
for precision of language. He wouldnt say the simple thing,
They are twins, or They are seventeen years old, and he
wouldnt say They were twins, or were seventeen years old,
so I knew that one, and one only, was dead.
I hope your acuteness will continue through dinner,
laughed the editor. We need it. Now, then, to business. Cudlipp
had sort of adopted Andr de Bry, used him to prepare his
bigger canvases, and so on. De Bry had fallen in love with
Eleanor. She returned his passion. De Bry was hopelessly poor
no, not hopelessly, for he had a rich uncle, who had a fad of
independence. He wouldnt give Andr a farthing; but if the
boy succeeded in making himself a career, he promised to leave
him every penny he had. The family is noble, much better
than Cudlipps; so the boy was not a bad match for Eleanor,
and, contingently, a very good one. He and Harry were perfectly good friends. There was, in short, no element of disagreement worth notice. The days passed pleasantly, either in
painting or fishing, and the evenings in games. One can hardly
imagine a more harmonious group.
On the 18th of August the yacht, which supplied the island
with stores from the mainland, called and left provisions for
the party. To avert false conjecture from the start, I may say
that it is absolutely impossible that some mysterious stowaway could have landed from the yacht and hidden somewhere
on the island. The police subsequently went through the place
with a fine tooth comb. It is thirty miles from the nearest land,
is barely a quarter of a mile in its greatest length, has neither
a cave nor a tree on it. So dont talk about that! Well, the yacht
weighed anchor on the afternoon of the 18th; that night a storm
came up from the Atlantic, and raged for a whole week. It is
physically impossible that any one should have landed on the
rock during that period. Furthermore, the Big House stands on
a quite unclimbable pinnacle Im a rock climber, as you
know, and I went to see it, and theres not a crack anywhere. It
was only connected with the rest of the island by a wooden
bridge of the cantilever type; and the violence of the wind was
such that on the second night of the storm it carried it away.
This was inconvenient for them, as will be seen; but it simplifies the matter a good deal for us. Well, on the 25th the storm
abated, and the fishermen were about to put to sea when they
observed Lord Cudlipp on the edge of the cliff, firing his shotgun. Seeing he was noticed, he signalled and shouted to them

to come up. He met them, so far as he could, at the chasm

where the bridge had been. There has been murder done here,
he said shortly, take this message and telegraph it at once.
He flung a stone to them, with a paper wrapped about it. The
telegram asked for the police; also for a gang of men with
materials to build up the bridge. The following noon relief
The rest of the story needs little detail. It is as astonishingly simple as it is perplexing. The naked body of the boy
Harry was found on the morning of the 23d in the big room
used by the other men as a studio Harry and Eleanor took
not the slightest interest in art. Death had been caused by a
small deep wound in the femoral artery; a penknife might have
made it. But there was no blood; and at the post-mortem was
revealed the utterly astonishing fact that there was no blood in
the whole body when I say no blood, I mean, not enough for
a rabbit! It had been systematically drained. I need hardly tell
you that the whole island went wild with stories of vampires
and witches; I wont bother you with that sort of rubbish.
But the horror of the circumstances cannot be easily
matched. Imagine to yourselves that lonely crag, itself a monument of desolation, towering from sea to sky, bleak, bare, barren and heartless as sea and sky themselves. Such a place has
always bred strange stories and strange crimes.
But think of the feelings of the people in the house, one of
them certainly a murderer!
However, the police were easily able to narrow down the
possibilities. The boy had been chloroformed or otherwise rendered unconscious, without doubt, for there could have been
no struggle. The wound was clean, and obviously inflicted by
some one with first rate anatomical knowledge. It was, too, a
highly civilized crime, so to speak.
This really restricted the field of inquiry to the two painters. Common sense excluded the father, whose main hope of
an illustrious line was thus cut off. On the other hand, de Bry
was a doubtful character. In Paris he had been accustomed to
frequent the lowest haunts the sort of place one finds in
these little streets about here and as a matter of fact, he
was usually called the Apache as a sort of nickname. But no
one had ever heard of anything very definite, except an alleged duel with knives in a shop off the Boulevard St. Germain
called Tout la Joie, a low drinking cellar. This came out in
court later, and sounded nasty, though it was proven that he
had been attacked without provocation, and the police had not
even arrested him. Still, a man so ready with a knife it
impressed the jury badly, I could see that.
To cut a long story short, they arrested Andr. He refused
to enter the witness box; he had no story to tell; nor, indeed,
had any of the others. Harry had gone to bed alive; he was
found dead in the morning. No quarrel anywhere. No motive
for anybody.
The jury was out for twenty-four hours; they came back
with that joy which only Scotland offers to its jurymen the
Verdict of the Sitter on the Fence: Not proven. They all
thought he did it, but they couldnt make up their minds to
hang him; so there was the way out. Therefore, Andr de Bry
is at large again; and, by the same token, I came over on the
boat with him. He was muffled to the eyes, but I knew him. So
hes probably within a mile of us at this minute.
What do you think of the story? asked Major, a little anx-


Oh, I agree with the natives, replied the mystic, laughingly, to the astonishment of his hearers. Excuse my referring to the fact that Im a professional Magus still, you
should not be surprised if I tell you that I hold to the theory of
vampires and werewolves and sirens and the rest of the dear
Be serious, master! urged Flynn, using a title which he
knew would put the mystic on his honor.
My dear lad, I believe this murder was done by some one
whom none of them knew to have been there.
But how could he have got away?
Vanished whence he came.
A haunted house? Damn it, something in your tone makes
my blood run cold.
Well, slowly answered the mystic, possibly, in a sense, a
haunted house.
Major called the waiter to bring another bottle of Burgundy.
Have you really formed a theory about the case? asked
Flynn. To me its absolutely beyond reason.
Beneath it, beneath it! Ah well, no matter! As a fact, I
have not made up my mind. How can I, till Ive seen this chaps
You think there was some motive of jealousy? snapped
out Major.
I dont think at all till Ive seen them. Look here! do you
know his work?
No; he hasnt shown anything. Hes an absolute kid, you
know. But Tite saw a thing of his in some studio or other, and
Tite said it was damned bad. So I dare say its pretty decent
Wheres his studio?
Dont know, answered the sculptor. Ill find out to-night,
if youre really set on this. May I call for you in the morning?
Well go up together; perhaps youll let me make it djeuner
youll come, of course, Jack as Ive been shouting for
Burgundy at your dinner, you shall shout for Claret ay my
Im at Bourciers, 50 rue Vavin, as always, said Simon
Iff. The best house, and the best people, in all Paris. Come
round at nine.
Right. Meet me there, Flynn. Its a great hunt, the truth!
With a hunter like Simple Simon, youll find it so, said
Flynn, enthusiastically.
The next morning saw the three friends tramping it up the
Boulevard Raspail, past the great calm glory of the unconquered Lion de Belfort, along the busy Boulevard de
Montrouge, and so to the very hem of Paris, the fortifs dear
to the Apache. Here they turned west, and came presently to
an old wine shop, through which lay the entrance to the studio
of de Bry.
He was already at work in his little garden; an old man,
leaning on a spade, was posing for him.
Major advanced and offered his card. Monsieur de Bry! I
feel sure you will pardon me. I am a Socitaire of the Beaux
Arts; I have heard that your work is excellent, and I am here
with two friends of the most distinguished to ask the honor of


looking at it.
Mr. Major! cried the boy, as he put his brushes down in
his eagerness at first he had not recognized the great man
indeed, the honor is altogether mine. But Ive nothing
worth seeing, I assure you.
Major introduced his friends. De Bry, telling the model to
rest, led the party into the studio. With infinite diffidence the
boy began to show his work.
In a few minutes Major, with his hands thrust deep into his
trousers pockets, and his head thrown back, was reduced to
utter silence. Simon Iff, who was watching him as well as the
pictures, smiled his grimmest smile. The editor, inured to small
talk by his profession, made the conversation. Its all beginnings, said the boy, but this is more what Ive tried for. I did
it in the summer. The mystic noticed with a darkening face
that he seemed to speak of that summer as if it had held nothing but a holiday.
The canvas showed the rock of Dubhbheagg amidst the
breakers. It had been painted from a boat on a clear day. The
sky was blue; a flight of wildfowl gave life to the picture. But
the rock itself was more vital than the birds. It seemed the
image of some great lost God of solitude, eternally contemplative, eternally alone. It was more melancholy than Drers
master-work, or Thomsons interpretation of it. And de Bry
had not used the materials of melancholy, or images of death;
he had merely painted a rock just as it was when he saw it. Yet
he had made it a creature of cosmic life, as significant and
vital as the universe itself and as lonely and inexorable.
Simon Iff spoke for the first time. Is that picture for sale?
he asked. Yes, said the painter, rather eagerly. They noticed
that he looked ill.
Probably hasnt had a meal since that damned affair,
thought Major. How much? very stiffly from Simple Simon.
The painter hesitated. Would you give me fifty francs for
it? he asked timidly.
The mystic rose to his feet, and shook his stick in the boys
face. No, you damned young scoundrel, I will not! he roared.
How dare you ask such a price?
The boy shrank back; he expected that the old man would
strike him.
Do you know who I am? thundered Simon. Im the chairman of the Art Committee of the Hemlock Club! Thats the
trouble with you artists; youre blacklegs, every one of you.
Offering a thing like that for fifty francs and pulling down the
price of everything but the old Masters! Answer me straight
now; how much is it worth?
The boy was too taken aback to reply.
Have you ever seen a worse thing offered for ten thousand
francs? asked Simon, cynically.
Oh yes! he stammered at last.
Ill give you fifteen thousand. Heres a thousand on account; Ill send a cheque for the balance this afternoon. Send
the picture to Simon Iff, 50, rue Vavin. And, if youve nothing
to do, come and see me as soon as the light fails this afternoon. Yes, bring the picture round in a fiacre. About 5, then!
He thrust a big thousand franc note in the boys hand, and
withdrew stormily from the studio.
The others followed him; but Major stopped a moment. Did
you like my bust of Rodin? asked the sculptor. The boy was
still too bewildered to do more than nod. Ill send you a bronze,




if youd care to have it. And come and see me, any time you
care to, and particularly any time you need a friend. De Bry
grasped the offered hand in silence.
The others had reached the street when Major caught them.
I hope you dont mean mischief by that boy, he said to Iff. I
seem to smell a trap. For heavens sake leave him alone! Hes
the biggest thing since Turner; if he keeps on growing, the
planet wont hold him.
My mind is quite made up, returned Simon Iff, coldly. If
the lunch is still on, suppose we take a taxi. If you dont mind,
well have a private room at the Caf de la Paix. We shall
need to go rather deeply into this matter.
Simon Iff would not talk at all of anything but old times in
Paris until after lunch, when the decks were cleared of all but
the three Cs coffee, cigars, and cognac. Then he cleared his
As you have heard me say about a million times, Jack, Do
what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. Failure to observe this precept is the root of all human error. It is our right
and duty the two are one, as Eliphaz Levi very nearly saw
to expand upon our own true centre, to pursue the exact
orbit of our destiny. To quit that orbit is to invite collisions.
Suppose it to be my illusion to think it my will to pass through
that closed window. I bump my head; I cut my face; I finally
make a mess on the boulevard. Or, I think it my will to steal
my neighbors watch. I am caught; police-court, prison, and
general disaster. Merely the result of my ignorance in regard
to my true destiny. Failure in life and especially criminal failure; collision. Then where is the original collision? In myself.
There is a conflict between my conscious will and my unconscious will, between the sophisticated babble of reason and
the still small voice of the soul. Poe had quite an idea of this,
with his Imp of the Perverse; Ibsen, the greatest of all realists, a more detailed conception, with his troll; but both imagined that consciousness was right and the Inner Light wrong.
Now that is a mere assumption, and we mystics, who know
that Light, know better. It is the first task of every man who
would not only be himself, but understand himself, to make
the union or harmony between these two, perfect. Now of course
most men, so far as the main path of their lives is concerned,
never find these two forces in conflict, never become aware of
them at all. The troubles of genius are principally due to a
recognition of this truer Light, and of its apparent incompatibility with the conscious will, or perhaps of a realization that
they cannot execute their will, because of the pressure of circumstance upon them. Hence the well-earned celebrity of the
Artistic Temperament. Frequently we observe that the artist,
unable to fulfil himself in his art, turns to vice of one kind or
another. It is as if a sculptor, in a gesture of impatience with
his Venus, dabbed a handful of clay on her nose, and made her
look like an elephant!
If you knew how often Ive done just that thing! laughed
Well continued the mystic, to come to the murder of this
boy Harry
I see where youre driving, broke in Jack Flynn. And as
Im sure you noticed the perfect nonchalance of de Bry when
he showed us that picture, you are going to prove that he did it

unconsciously, or at least that its all so natural to him that he

has no sense of it.
You would find out what I am going to prove if you would
let me do it, said Simon, in some ill-humor. Major had felt
ashamed of himself for smiling; he was genuinely concerned
about his great new artist.
To come to the murder of this boy Harry, repeated the
magician, we notice two things. First, the general surroundings. Storm, isolation, the wild weird atmosphere of the Scottish Highlands enough to send any man, with an original
touch of madness, over the line. Second, the nature of the
murder itself; it is in perfect keeping with the setting. Its details are elaborate. It is not an ordinary murder, but the murder of a I cant find the right word.
Major broke in grimly: The murder of a great mind gone
wrong? Of such a mind as conceived, and such a hand as executed, those masterpieces? Oh my God!
Your interruptions will not alter the facts of the case, or
my deductions; pray let me proceed! Besides, there is still one
step to take before we arrive at any such conclusion. I want
you to remember a peculiar fact about the French Revolution.
Here we find a whole set of people, educated, intelligent, complex, and above all humanitarian, who suddenly indulge in
wholesale massacre. This, like the crime we are discussing,
was a perverse crime. It was not at all in accordance with the
general will of the Revolutionists, which was simply Social
But they had been thwarted for generations; thwarting was
in their blood, as it were; and when they came to action, they
became perverse. Thus I beg you to believe it is not
merely the artistic temperament which produces these horrible crimes; it is simply any temperament which is suppressed
long enough. It is more usual to find this manifested in artists,
because they are advanced people who understand pretty well
what their will is, who suffer more keenly, in consequence,
from the thwarting of that will, especially as they usually perceive only too keenly the fact that it is the errors and stupidities of other people, people who have strayed far from their
own orbits, that cause the thwarting in question. I will ask you
to consider the case of a man who makes friends of spiders.
Oh, you say, that is after he has been in the Bastille for twenty
years. Precisely. He may have been a very bad man; he may
himself have thwarted his own fundamental impulses of love;
but the complete suppression of that instinct for so many years
results in its peeping out at last, and taking an unnatural form.
There are plenty of similar instances which will occur to you.
In the case of the French Revolution, we must also consider
the question of atavism. Humanitarian as the leaders were,
their forefathers had been inured to fire and sword since the
dawn of the race. It was the primitive tribal passion that broke
out in them, after centuries of suppression. So you get the
same phenomenon in both the man and the race. Simon
That boy, said Major, has one of the greatest souls ever
incarnated on this planet, and I wont believe he did it.
Your courage is splendid, replied Simple Simon, but your
beliefs do not invalidate the conclusions of science. E pur si
Is that all? asked Flynn.
For shame, Jack, cried the mystic; I have hardly begun.


But I perceive that the light is failing; we had better end this
conversation in the presence of Andr de Bry. Major paid the
bill; and they went across Paris to the old magicians little
studio in the Rue Vavin.
It was a small room, and very simply furnished; but the paintings and sculptures would have made the fame of any museum. Each was the gift of a master to Simon Iff.
We shall wait for the young man, said the mystic, as they
seated themselves; you will see that I have no difficulty in
forcing him to confess.
Ill never believe it, insisted Major.
Dont believe it till you hear it! was the abrupt retort.
A quarter of an hour elapsed; then the slim figure of the boy
appeared. In his arms was the picture.
Simon took it and placed it upon the mantel. Major was
right; there was nothing in the room to equal it. The magician
went to his desk, and wrote out a check for fourteen thousand
francs, which he handed to the young painter. If you would
sign this receipt? De Bry complied.
Do not go! said Simon. I have much to say to you. You
really like the picture? You think it worthy of you?
I wouldnt have sold it if I didnt
Yet you were in sore straits? You were denying yourself
food to pay your model?
I shouldnt have sold it to you if I didnt think it mine.
That too is worthy. But now, sit down. There are others to
consider in this matter. I am going to ask my friends to remain
absolutely silent while we talk.
I know what you are going to say, said the boy. I think it
unnecessary and cruel.
Wait till I have done. It is not only necessary and kind, but
it is very urgent.
I cant refuse the first man who has appreciated my work.
Listen while I tell you a story. Many years ago I knew a
man named Thornley, a wealthy manufacturer of biscuits. He
had one son, Joseph. He asked me one day to recommend a
tutor for the lad. I told him of a clergyman named Drew, a man
of deep scholarship, great culture, and intense love of art. He
worked on the ambition of Joseph Thornley, and the boy, after
a years tuition from Drew, decided to be a painter. The tutor
died suddenly; but the boys ambition remained. He persuaded
his father to let him go to various art schools, where he studied incessantly, with the most praiseworthy diligence.
Damn it! roared Major, he had no more capacity for art
than this chair I am sitting on!
I asked you not to interrupt, returned Simon mildly. I
never said he had! To continue. Backed with ample wealth
and influence, and fortified with determination to succeed,
Thornleys career was one long series of triumphs. Although
primarily a marine painter, he also did other work, notably
portraits. His picture of the king in the uniform of a British
Admiral caught the public taste more than any other of his
efforts. It was in that year that he was not only elected to the
presidency of the Royal Academy of Arts, but raised to the
peerage with the title of Baron Cudlipp. His only sorrow was
the death of his wife two years after the birth of his children.
The magician turned to Andr. Good! Now how did you
spend the week of the great storm?


Billiards, mostly, stammered Andr, taken by surprise.

Chess, too, and some card games. I sketched, of course, nearly
all day. Eleanor had some needlework. Poor Harry was very
bored; he did nothing much
And Cudlipp buried himself a good deal in anthropology?
Yes; he had Frazers Golden Bough all the time
The boy broke off, and stared. How did you know that? he
said, aghast.
A little bird told me, said Simon lightly.
All of a sudden Major sprang to his feet. Then Cudlipp
killed his son, he shouted, Oh! Simple Simon, what a fool
Ive been! And he suddenly broke down in spasm on spasm
of sobs.
I promised these gentlemen, said Simon, taking no notice
of the outburst, that I would force a confession from you this
afternoon. I think this is the moment. Come, we are all attention.
I certainly cannot hear this senseless slander against my
protector without
Hush! said Simon. I told you this matter was urgent. I
meant what I said. You must catch the nine oclock train for
Why? said the boy, defiantly; who are you to say this?
I am a person who is going to put a letter in the post in an
hours time; and you had better arrive before the letter.
I dont understand.
I was explaining to these gentlemen at lunch that all crime
was the result of conflict; that perverse crime, in particular,
was caused by conflict of the conscious and unconscious wills.
Dont you see? said Major, mastering himself, it couldnt
be you. You were supremely happy; you had the girl you loved;
you had found yourself as an artist. But Cudlipp had thwarted
his own inner will all his life; he was meant to bake biscuits;
and he had forced himself to do those eye-destroying horrors.
But go on, master! I still dont see the whole story.
I havent told you all the facts yet. Cudlipps family was
originally Armenian, for one thing, the offshoot of some old
Babylonian tribe. Then there was the Golden Bough with its
detailed description of various savage rites, especially the sacrifice of the first-born, an idea, by the way, which the Jews
only adopted at third or fourth hand from older and autochthonous races. Then the newspapers were filled with long arguments about the Chesidim and ritual murder, the trial of that
man somewhere in Russia cant think of his name begins with a B was on at this time. Well, when the suppressed genius of the man for baking biscuits which may
be a passion like another when that broke out, probably
under the strain of the long storm, and the wildness of the
whole scene, and possibly some sudden realization that this
boy here could paint, and he himself never could, why, then
his brain snapped. The recent impressions combined with some
far strain of atavism, and he resolved upon the murder.
I still cant see why murder, said Flynn. Why should not
this biscuit-baking genius go into the kitchen and bake biscuits?
I want you to recognize the fact, you dear good simple soul,
that madmen are a thousand times more logical than the sane.
The conclusions of normal men are always balanced by other
considerations; we criticize our ideas of proper tailoring, for
example, in the spotlight of our check books. The madman




doesnt. He wants clothes; he thinks of nothing else; so he

goes down to Savile Row and orders a dozen sable overcoats
and thirty dress suits. Its much more logical, if logic were all!
So Cudlipp reasoned something like this, as I imagine; Ive
wasted forty years trying to paint when I ought to have been
baking biscuits; now I must make up for lost time. How to do
that? The madmans reason finds it easy. The connection between gold and copper coins is an arbitrary one, isnt it? Yes.
Well, if I havent got a barrow-load of coppers, I can give you
a fist full of sovereigns, and its just as good. The whole idea
of primitive magic (which he had been reading, remember!)
rests on arbitrary substitution. The king must die every year,
or the sun wont come back theres an arbitrary connection,
to begin with, though its based on false reasoning, or rather
on correct reasoning from false observation. Now the king
doesnt want to die; so he takes a criminal, labels him king,
and kills him. Every one is happy. So this man seeks to satisfy
his genius, suppressed for forty years, in a night. Surely it
must be through some monstrous act of violence and horror!
That is madmans logic. Then, as I said before, some ancestral
memory in the subconscious self influenced his recent impression, and that gave the form to the idea. It is also conceivable
that he had a real purpose, thought that the sacrifice of the
first-born might enable him to become a painter. Gilles de
Retz murdered over 800 children in his endeavor to make gold.
But of this theory I have no evidence. However, the rest stands.
Andr de Bry listened with white lips to this speech.
Now will you confess? asked the magician, with mild persistence.
I dont see why I should.
Because you are still looking at the past. Cant you foresee
the future?
Ought I to kill myself?
Be serious, sir! reprimanded Simon. I see that I must
tell you more. So far, I have told you how I know that Cudlipp
killed his son, and how he came to do it. You may or may not
know why he did it, but you must know that he did it, if only
by a process of exclusion. Then what will he do next?
The boy began to smile. Oh, Eleanor is with an aunt, he
said; shes safe enough.
Now we begin to confess, indirectly, continued Simon.
But what will he do? Is he conscious of his act? You see, I
must know all. I was already sure that you would never have
left Eleanor in danger. But there are other problems.
Im beaten, said Andr. Ill tell you all I know.
It was I who discovered the body of poor Harry; for I had
risen with the first light, intending to paint. I neednt go into
the events of that day, much; it was all suspicion, perfectly
hellish. I havent your reasoning powers, Mr. Iff, and I didnt
think he had done it, particularly. He pretended to suspect me,
of course. We can see now, thanks to you, that his whole life
has been one long hypocrisy, that he has been pretending to be
an artist, just like any other fraud. His deadly earnestness about
it only made it worse; I see that now. But I didnt see it then;
to me he was just a bad painter, and I looked no deeper. Well,
by dinner time our nerves were all on edge; Eleanors, naturally, more than any. After dinner I said I would go to bed,

meaning to snatch an hours sleep, and then to watch Eleanors

door all night. I had told her to have her companion in her
room the poor old lady was glad enough to have company,
you can imagine.
Eleanors manner to me had been strange beyond words;
but I only thought that it meant that she suspected me. However, when I said I was going to bed, she jumped up: Do play
me a hundred up first! she cried; Ill go mad if you dont.
We went into the billiard room together. She closed the door,
and put her back to it. Andr, she cried, Ive been insane
about this all day; but Im in a fearful position. Only I cant
let you go to bed. I must tell you. Papa did it. I caught her in
my arms, for she was falling. In a moment she recovered. Last
night, she went on, I woke with frightful dreams and I
found my nose was bleeding. I lit my candle, and got up to get
water. Then I knew suddenly that something was wrong with
Harry. I always have known; its the twin sympathy.
Damnation! interrupted Simple Simon in a fury, Im getting old. I ought to have known that she knew.
Youve done well enough, sir, said Andr; its been like
a miracle to me to hear you. Eleanor went on: The moment
my nose stopped bleeding I took my black kimono, and went
down to Harrys room. The door was open. I slipped in. It was
dark. At that instant I saw the studio door open. (They were
right opposite, Mr. Iff.) I knew there would be all kinds of
trouble if I were caught wandering about the house at that
time of night. I kept still. I could see through the crack of the
door. Papa was silhouetted against the light in the studio. He
had a wash hand basin, carrying it carefully. I heard him give
a short harsh laugh, and say aloud: Now I begin to live. He
went down the little corridor by Harrys room. (It leads to a
pepper-box turret. Harrys room has a window on to that corridor.) I went to the side window. I saw papa throw the basin
over the cliff. Then he went back, and down the main corridor
to his room. I felt for Harry in his bed. He wasnt there. I
found matches. The room was empty. I went into the lighted
studio. I saw Harry at once, and knew he was dead. I fainted.
When I came to myself I was in my own bedroom. I must have
walked there without knowing. A few minutes later, I suppose, the alarm came. Forgive me; I ought to have told you
before; you must have suffered fearfully. But I stopped
her. Its best, I think, that you have told me now, I said, we
must save him. We must be on our guard, and do nothing. We
noted Cudlipps conduct. It became clear that he would hide
his crime to the end, even to letting me be hanged for it. I told
her that I would never speak to her again if she interfered, that
I would die for the honor of her family. I made her swear by
her dead mother. I doubted at first if he were aware of what he
had done, but his manner left no doubt. For instance, he made
no inquiry into the mystery of the basin missing from his room,
and never spoke of it in court. So we knew.
Youre a very noble and very wrong-headed young man,
said Simon; you dont really think we can leave things as
they are, do you? Observe what is happening now. The explosion in the mans brain once over, habit has resumed its sway.
Hes the hypocritical bourgeois once more but with the
memory of that most fearful deed to lash him. If I know anything of men, it will prey upon his mind; and we shall have
either another murder, or, more likely, suicide. Your sacrifice
and Eleanors will be useless. This is what has to be done:


You and I will go to London together to-night. In the morning
we will confide in two alienists. We will all go to Cudlipp
House; the doctors will certify him insane; he must consent to
our terms. He must put himself in the charge of a medical
attendant and a male nurse, and he must go away with them,
so that he never returns.
The newspapers will be told that the shock of recent events
has undermined his health, and that he has been ordered a
complete change of scene.
We shall then go to Eleanor, and tell her what has been
done; you will marry her here in Paris; I will arrange with the
Consulate for secrecy; and you will yourself seek change of
scene for a year or so. You, Major, will supply him with money
if he needs it; you can get rid of some of those canvases, I
Major nodded.
And you, Flynn, will invent a way up those cliffs, and a
story about a maniac vampire, ending with his confession and
suicide, to round it off nicely; we must clear this lad of that
ghastly not proven business.


That is a job, said Flynn, which I shall most thoroughly

enjoy doing. But now you must all come and dine with me; we
have no time to lose, if we mean to catch that nine oclock
Two years later a certain pretty French Countess was enthusiastic, at the Salon des Beaux Arts, over the six South Sea
Island pictures of a new Socitaire. Andr de Bry? she said
to her escort, the great sculptor Major; isnt that the young
man who was accused of poor Bibi Sangsues last murder?
The maniac vampire! yes; the fools! as if anyone could mistake Bibis handiwork!
Truth is certainly stranger than fiction; Bibis career sounds
like the wildest imagination. Doesnt it?
It does, said Major solemnly. But perhaps you knew
At one time, murmured the Countess, with a blush and a
droop of the eyelids, at one time well rather intimately!
I, said Major, knew only his father and mother!

Hush to the harps and the hymns! for the soul in my body
I tremble in all my limbs! A fire eats up my bones!

And yet I have known thee, known thine head bowed down
to thy knee,
Thy loose hair fallen a zone about the middle of me;

My right hands spasm seizes and shatters my moons by


Bend didst thou yet lower incarnate bliss as thou art

Winding thee slower and slower, yet firmer about mine heart.

And the sweat of my forehead freezes to white-hot meteors!

I lash the horses of night, and the stars foam forth at their

Oh but the blast of wonder when mouth with mad mouth


All space and time take flight as my chariot tears their ranks.

And in one dying thunder the manifest sun-world set,

And God brake out ablaze O sister, born at a birth!

I drink the milky mist of the starry ways like wine;

I grip Gods beard in my fist, and my axe cleaves gorge and

Let us raid the mountainous ways! Let us rape the virgin


At sight of my anguish and trouble the heavens answer my

Let us set the stars to song! Let us harness the sun for a

The universe breaks like a bubble and I am lonelier still.

Let the streams of time run strong, with life for a waterweed,

Silence, and horror, the void these are my feudals to friend!

I, with eternity cloyed, hunger in vain for the end.

And we swim free therein, as the Gods themselves, as They

Who splash the Aeons, and spin sedge-cycles in their play.

Lo! I am shrunk to a breath, a wisp of phantastical air,

A sycophant spurned by Death, a cast-off clout of Despair.

Come! Let us soar, let us soar, beyond the abodes of time,

Beyond the skies that are hoar with the blossoms of stars for

Send but a ripple of song, O singer, to stir my breath!

Send but a note to prolong this langourous lust of Death!

Beyond the search of the sun, beyond the abyss of thought,

For thou art subtle and swift, beyond my sight as a bird

Loftily loud in the lift, a great grace hardly heard,

Beyond the bliss of the One to the land that the Gods call

(So low am I, my lover!) a beatitude blazoned afar

Inaccessibly high to hover, a dream still more than a star!

There let us rest, let us rest O the jasmine in your hair

As your head sinks on my breast have we not rested there?








by the




(Continued from the last issue.)

Now to more amusing facts of my career. The first thing I
learnt was to travel in the astral body. This seems to have been
a natural gift with me; in half-a-dozen experiments I was already master of the Astral Plane. I could go where I would,
see what I would, hear what I would. At that time I did not
know of those higher planes to which initiation is the only key.
The next step to going out on the Astral Plane is to get it to
return the visit; in other words, evocation of spirits to material
appearance. It was just as I started on this that I found Allan
Bennett. The occasion was an initiation into the order of which
we were both members; but he had not been present since I
joined it. After the ceremony I was led trembling before the
great man, and of course, could say not a word. However, in the
ante-room, an hour later, he came directly to me and began:
So, little brother, you have been meddling with the Goetia. I
protested myself unworthy even to pronounce the word! But he
had spotted me as a promising colt, and when, using my opportunity, I made myself even as his familiar spirit, he consented to
take me as a pupil. Before long we were working together day
and night, and a devil of a time we had!
In my chambers in Chancery Lane I fitted up a temple, the
walls covered by six vast mirrors, so as to throw back the force
of the invocations. There were circle and triangle on the floor,
and an altar in the midst of the circle.
I constructed all my magical weapons with my own hands,
except the wand, which cannot be made, but must be transmitted. This, a shaft of almond cut with a single blow of the Magick Knife at sunrise on Easter morn, was transmitted to me by
Frater Volo Noscere.
The effect of all this was pretty sultry.
I was attacked by a black magician in the very early days
the story is told at length and with perfect accuracy of detail in
my tale, At the Fork of the Roads; it is too long to cite here. I
will only say that a woman was sent by the Black Lodge to get
a drop of my blood, that she succeeded, that for ten nights following I was assailed by a succubus which I killed with my
hands every time, that with the help of my master I put her out
of business by sending a plague of cats to her house, and that

when she came to try for more blood I punished her by sending
her into my black temple a tiny closet where I kept a skeleton which I fed on mice and birds with the idea of creating a
material and living demon servant where she was rent in
pieces by the evil things she had invoked. She went to the devil,
and her master fled the country.
Not bad, all this, for ones first year of magick?
One of our great exploits was the saving of the life of my
master. Absolutely unselfish, he would never stir to help himself, and he was a permanent invalid from spasmodic asthma,
with complications. Frater V. N. and I determined, in the name
and for the sake of the Order, to save him. We evoked the spirit
Buer to visible appearance. This was not wholly successful; at
that time we wanted things to happen as they did in books
for we were young. But we got the right leg and the foot and
ankle of the left as solid as need be; and the head, helmeted,
was dimly visible through the incense smoke. In those days we
were too pious to use blood, or we might have done better. However, the purpose of the work succeeded. The Master recovered, and is alive to this day fifteen years later.
Curious how dull good is, how amusing evil! Much keener in
memory is one night when Frater V. N. and I were alone together working on the talismans and other necessaries for some
operation or other, I entirely forget what. We went out to dinner,
and before leaving the room, I noticed that the temple door was
slightly open. It was locked by a Yale key of which there was
but one, which had never left my possession. In those days my
chief alarm was that some one would get into my magical affairs. (Nowadays I callously let them in; if they blow their heads
off, thats their affair, not mine!) So I sedulously slammed and
tested the door, and out we went to dinner. On the stairs was a
black cat not a real cat, either. Back we came from a perfectly temperate meal, found the outer door secure as we had
left it, entered, found the temple door wide open, though with
no sign of violence, and the altar overthrown, and its furniture
tossed in all directions. And then the fun began!
Round and round the big library tramped the devils all the
evening, an endless procession; 316 of them we counted, described, named, and put down in a book. It was the most awe-


some and ghastly experience I had known.
Strange how they love to open doors! In the East of my big
temple in Scotland was a secret shrine, on to which folding
doors opened. These I would lock, padlock, seal, nail down,
fasten (in short) by every manner of means; yet, every time I left
the room, I expected to find them open. Too often to recount, I
did so. I set all kinds of traps for the spirits; it was useless. As
long as I was in the room nothing would happen; the moment I
shut the outer doors behind me, the inner ones would open noiselessly. I ultimately had to perform a special ceremony to get rid
of the annoyance. The demons who played this game were the
49 servitors of Beelzebub; when tamed they became exceedingly useful.
There is a manuscript in the Arsenal Library of Paris which
has been translated and published under this title, The Book
of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage. It is the best and
the most dangerous book ever written. The translator, who lived
at the other end of Paris, had to give up cycling to the library, so
many were his accidents. Even afoot, he was in constant danger
of his life. And he misused the book, fell from a very creditable
degree of attainment as a magician to be a loafer, a dipsomaniac, a sponger, and a blackmailer; in the end he died insane.
The book is the address of one Abraham the Jew to his
second son, Lamech, bestowing this magick upon him. The author records his research, his many travels and disappointments.
At last he meets with one Abramelin in Egypt, goes with him
into an oasis, and is there initiated by the bestowal of this Sacred Magick. He returns, achieves the task, and employs his
powers to the glory of God and the benefit of his neighbor, forcing even bishops to restore stolen property, winning battles for
Electors by the timely creation of artificial cavalry, healing
the sick wholesale, and generally bestirring himself as a philanthropist.
The substance of the operation is as follows: Get a house in a
quiet place, have a terrace opening to the North of your Oratory,
have robes and a crown, a wand, and a few other not-too-Persian apparatus, and then get busy. Pray more and more every
day to obtain the Knowledge and Conversation of your Holy
Guardian Angel. After two months cut out all distractions and
pray harder. After two months of that, pray harder still.
Then the climax. The Angel appears and instructs. Then and
not till then summon the Four Great Princes of the Evil of the
World and compel them to swear obedience on the wand, and
order them to operate certain talismans. The next day call the
Eight Sub-Princes, and the third day their servitors.
The book is written throughout in a serious and simple style.
It is by far the most convincing mediaeval magical document in
existence. The personality of Abraham himself is evidence.
And any person who doubts magick has only to get a copy of
the book, and refuse to take it seriously. He will get proofs enough
in standard time; place, the back of the neck!
But if you take it seriously and reverently, if you aspire with
your whole will to this attainment, you are safe. The blows of
the demon will fall only on those about you.
Yet every obstacle will be put in your way. For example, I
had command of what was for all practical purposes unlimited
money. I didnt care what I spent on this work. It took me eleven
months to find a house.
In copying out on vellum the talismans, I used the breakfastroom of that house, a room chosen because it was light and


cheerful and caught the early morning sun. The weather was
fine. Yet I had to do my copying by artificial light. The sun
could not penetrate the murk that gathered about those talismans.
One day I returned from shooting on the hill to find a Catholic Priest in my drawing room. It was to ask my permission to
do what he could for my gardener, a total abstainer of twenty
years standing who had gone raving drunk.
My housekeeper vanished, unable to bear the eeriness of the
An adept with whom I had arranged that he should stay to be
a link between me and the outer world likewise fled in terror
without a word of warning.
One of the workmen employed about the place went raving
mad, and tried to kill me. Others again became dipsomaniacs.
All my dogs died. My cook very nearly died, and was only saved
by a talisman.
Such are just a few of many incidents which averted the tragedy of dullness from my daily life. And all this, mind you, at the
mere threat to perform the Operation!
Time would fail me to tell of all the untoward events that
happened to people who did not even go so far as this. Only to
have that book on ones shelves is a more serious risk than drying dynamite on a stove!
The talismans work automatically. They are as easy to explode as Iodide of Nitrogen, and a sight more dangerous. My
friend and editor, Captain J. F. C. Fuller, once marked his place
in the book with his butchers bill; a couple of days later the
butcher was at work; his knife slipped, pierced his thigh and
killed him. As Fuller observed at the time, It may be only a
coincidence, but its just as bad for the butcher!
At my initiation I was taught to be cautious is a note in one
system; in another the neophyte is told Fear is failure, and the
forerunner of failure. Be thou therefore without fear, for in the
heart of the coward virtue abideth not.
Keep these two precepts constantly in your mind, and you
should go far and fast.
Now for the third class of magical operations! It deals no
longer with the brain of the magician himself, as in the case of
visions and evocations; it acts upon third parties directly. I refer
to the arts of fascination in its proper sense the word comes
from the Latin fascinum. Love is blind: and fascination includes all arts that have this effect. You transform yourself, like
Zeus into swan or bull, like Lucius into an ass, like the Egyptian Magi into an hawk, swallow, or Ibis, or like the Syrian into
a dove, and by this means compel the desired object to your
arms. Or you become invisible in the practical sense that
you remain unseen by those whom you wish not to see you, and
if you are playfully inclined, and hungry, you become a bat or a
wolf and go afield for blood. These stories are not legends: they
veil true powers. I only once tried vampirism, for examination
purposes, and in about an hour I bled my victim white. I passed
with honors and special mention.
Of course, the reason why one does not do these things is that
in the trance Atmadarshana, on the threshold of masterpiece,
one loses ones Ego for ever. Thenceforth the man exists only as
a vehicle for an Impersonal Master; he lives his own life, and
does his own duty, but the Master in him doesnt care what
happens to him.
The other day a young lady came to consult me. I gave her




about a thousand dollars worth of information. She asked me

what I was going to charge. I said: Nothing; regard me as a
bank account on which you can always draw. She said: But
you must eat! I answered: I do not see the necessity.
I am always being asked why, if I have all these powers, I do
not cause stones to become bread, and throw myself from the
Woolworth Building in order to prove the truth of the Ninetyfirst Psalm, and obtain all the kingdoms of the earth at slight
cost to self-respect.
Why did Christ refuse in the Temptation on the Mount?
It is the same story: I am come to do the Will of Him that sent
me. And if I have to die on the cross, that is better than living on
One form of fascination is the power over animals. Persuade
your animal that you are not that dangerous wild beast, a man,
and your task is over.
Remember St. Francis preaching to birds and fishes. I have
seen Allan Bennett do the same with the krait, the deadliest of
the Indian snakes. We met it on a road. Before I could blow its
head off with my revolver (the first duty of man) Allan interposed with his umbrella. But not to kill it. He deliberately stirred
it up. It struck at the umbrella. That, said Allan, is anger,
and went on to prove to the (I trust attentive) reptile the terrible
results on character of allowing oneself to give way to anger!
He also animadverted on the danger of frequenting the public
highway, and, to conclude, removed the beast gently to the long
grass. As a krait can strike in the fiftieth part of a second, and

kill (if he does strike) in about ten minutes, and as Allans only
protection, besides his divinity, was a pair of thin white duck
trousers, I think that may stand as one of the bravest acts ever
done. I consider myself a bit of a hero merely to have stood by!
However, I learnt a few tricks of this kind myself; for example a thing most useful in the tropics how to prevent
mosquitoes from biting one. This is done by thinking kindly of
them. It must be a genuine spontaneous feeling of brotherhood,
or it wont work. You can also pick up anything hot by fixing
the attention on the fact that it doesnt hurt. But that again is
a matter of knack. If you think about it too hard, you can no
longer do it. I believe D. D. Home had this power.
Again, you can prevent things from biting you by certain
breathing exercises. Hold the breath in such a way that the body
becomes spasmodically rigid, and insects cannot pierce the skin.
Near my bungalow at Kandy was a waterfall with a pool. Allan
Bennett used to feed the leeches every morning. At any moment
he could stop the leech, though already fastened to his wrist, by
this breathing trick. We would put our hands together into the
water; his would come out free, mine with a dozen leeches on
it. At such moments I would bitterly remark that a coyote will
not eat a dead Mexican, but it failed to annoy him.
With invisibility I was very successful. I made a big operation of it in the City of Mexico, and practiced daily for months
in front of a mirror. I got good at it at last; and several times I
have saved my life, and even things that I valued, thereby.
(To be concluded.)


Against the green sky are blue cones,
hudding, like pookoo up on a hill,
From the restless mutter of the forest
and the murmur of the river.
This is the home of my love,
whose beauties are sung by the mosquitoes
by night
and danced by the flies
by day.
(High tenor chant.)
I have feasted upon venison and fish,
yams roasted and wild orange!
I have drunk of the wine of the palm,
and made merry to the sound of drums upon the hill!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
For they have prepared against the coming of my love
a bed of young grass from the softest flanks of the river!
While I have anointed my body
In the smoke of the greenwood fire!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
My love walks like unto a leopard stalking buck!
And her belly is as smooth and as round

as yonder river rock!

Did you hear that monkey chatter?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Her legs are like young palm trees whispering!
Her thighs are as soft as the kernel of the baobab!
Supple is she as the neck of a young giraffe!
Did you hear that hippo snort?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
And her breasts are like unto small ant hills!
Her eyes are two storm-veiled moons,
and her flesh is as cool and as smooth as a banana frond!
Did you hear the jealous knight-hawk screech?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
The complexion of my love is woven from forest shadows,
and her teeth were stolen from a baby crocodile!
Did you hear that big one flop?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Her hair is crisp like unto young mealies between the
and her nose is exquisitely flattened like a wild plum!
Did you hear the parrot scream?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!


My love sits beside me upon the bridal couch!
Her touch is like a green grass snake!
Did you hear the welcome of the frogs?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Her acrid smell is more pungent than the greenwood
and far sweeter than the wild honey of the country of the
Did you hear the cricket shrilling?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Her chines are as firm as the filled bladder of a kid,
and smoother than an elephants tusk!
Did you hear the hyena swear?
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Her love song blends in harmony
with a jealous lions roar!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Her clutch is like an orchid!
Ehh! the mosquitoes bite!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!
Wei-walli! ...... Ow!




(A Fragment)
. . . As I approached the landing-place, continued the explorer, the savagery of the natives manifested itself in a thousand extravagances.
In one canoe was to be seen a medicine man, waving a saffron rag, who parleyed in some inscrutable jargon; the tenant of
another, a gorilla-like creature, boarded my boat, and plied me
with idiotic questions as to whether I had been there before,
where I was born, who was my father, was I a native of the
country (!!!), what were my political opinions and my moral
character, in short, everything that an imbecile curiosity could
conjure up. He paid not the least attention to my answers. I
learnt afterwards that this was part of a religious ritual of these
astonishing half-men.
The great point was that the stranger must be made to swear
some oath, no matter what, and no matter whether true or false.
The fact of attestation guaranteed the favor of their gods. So
again on landing I was confronted by another creature with a
head resembling that of a sheep, but with the expression of a
vulture, who exacted another oath to the effect that I was not
intending to trade with the natives. I swore as requested, and he
was immediately satisfied; but on subsequent examination I
found that he had taken advantage of my distraction to rifle my
loads, and sequestrate several articles that took his fancy. When
I complained of this through an interpreter, I was told that the
articles in question were of necessity either displeasing to the
gods, or pleasing to them, since the gods were never indifferent. In the first case, they must be destroyed; in the second they
must be offered to the gods. In either case have you any right in
the matter. They added that I might flatter my fortune that she
had brought me off so easily, for had I been a native, all my
possessions must infallibly have been seized.
But no sooner had I quitted the landing-stage with my porters
than an innumerable company of sordid persons began to jostle
me. These were all ragged and dirty; they stank horribly of stale
liquor of some kind unfamiliar to me, and also of some filthy
aromatic. They began at once to ply me with questions which
made those of my former tormentor seem almost reasonable.
For those other questions were at least such as I could answer; the new infliction was absurd. They asked me whether I
had ever been in their country before; and on my replying no,
inquired how I liked their country, what I thought of its institutions and customs, which they assured me were the best in the
world. They asked if I admired their women, who were the most
beautiful in the world, and none of whom, as they well knew, I
had yet seen. They wished even to know things which God alone
could have known, concerning the future; how long I was going
to stay, what I would do, and other matters even more ridiculous. They then became extremely insolent, commenting on my
personal appearance and costume, catching at my clothes and
asking their price, seeking information as to my most private
affairs, and in every way conducting themselves as the sodden
and mannerless mongrels that they were.
However, being at last for the first time well rid of these
scurvy knaves, I was able to rest to some extent, and to listen
while I ate my food to the babble around me. On my journey
from the landing-place I had already remarked that no man was

able to fix his mind upon his affairs. Every pebble by the roadside on which the suns rays chanced to fall at the proper angle
would catch his eye, and crying, Cowrie! Cowrie! he would
leave his occupation and rush after it. This frequently led to
free fights between savages who had observed the pebble at the
same moment, and they would continue to fight even after they
found it to be only a pebble. Some seemed altogether hypnotized by their desire for cowries, and, picking up pebbles, would
maintain angrily that they were cowries, or were better than
cowries, or would be cowries one day!
Their conversation was exclusively on this one subject. It
was unlucky or irreligious I was never able to determine the
root-idea in this superstition to complete a sentence without
mention of cowries, or to refer to any object without giving its
equivalent in cowries. It was also usual to prefix to every sentence a brief invocation of the official god; and this I found to
be the only trace remaining of his worship. The real god is a
fabulous bird the Aquila duplex of Mungo Park may be a
congener. Fabulous, I say, though the natives assert positively
that it exists. Yet some such bird is to be found in the western
part of the country. The possession of a specimen is said to
confer the highest happiness.
In default of such specimens they have dirty and crumpled
oblongs of some substance resembling paper. These are covered with hieroglyphic signs and pictures, and the Big Medicine-Man, a mysterious being in the interior of the country, consecrates them and issues them. Their possession ensures good
luck. Some are more sacred than others; this depends on the
signs written by the makers. For even one of these every native
is ready to perform any service, however degrading; or to steal,
rob, and murder.
There is, however, a difference in degree; it is pretended that
such crimes are only honorable or even (among the stricter sort
of men) excusable when the number or value of the oblongs is
great. But each man knows in his heart that even one of the
least desirable of these is worth the loss of his soul; for this is
their religion.
The food of the country is very varied and delicious, but the
cooks are by no means skilful in their art. It is possible, however, after some experience, to avoid actual poisoning; and this
the natives themselves are not able to do. For instead of using
their noses, tongues, and eyes, they judge wholly by ear, which,
a good principle in musical criticism, is unsuited to ripe gastronomy. Their method is as follows: Certain persons are chosen for the loudness of their tones, and appointed to declare the
benefits or the reverse of devouring certain substances. One
class cries that such a food is poison; his opponent that it is the
only true nourishment of life. This shouting goes on continuously, and the other natives catch the enthusiasm of the shouters
and join in their sacred war-dances, which often develop into
fights. The shouters claim the direct inspiration of the god of
truth, or of the god of freedom, or of the god of the people; but
in reality they are faithful to the true but unofficial god of this
strange people, as is every one. Those who most loudly blaspheme him are in truth often his best servants. The shouters are
employed by the merchants, in effect, and their oracles depend




upon the commercial interests of their masters. I remarked upon

this fact to one of their greatest philosophers, and he replied
that it was the greatest proof possible of their bona fides, that
the spiritual side of the prophets should be in such perfection of
harmony with their material welfare. What in the Abyss could
be better? (It is the custom to affirm belief in the existence of
a place of eternal punishment by introducing its name into every question, since certain heretics doubted it of yore.)
Should one prophesy against himself, it would show disunion in his being, which is no other than madness.
The test of truth is therefore exclusively its utility. This fact
is of wide bearing, and applies directly to their theory of law.
This is as simple in this country as it is complex in others.
The first principle is that everything is forbidden. For example,
said my interpreter, no man may carry arms. I pointed out that
(on the contrary) every man was armed to the teeth. True, said
he, therefore if any man displease the ruling power, it is easy to
destroy him. If he pay not ample tribute, or if he lend not his
wives to the right people, or if he err in thought upon political
or social questions, there is no trouble in condemning him. There
is always some crime, which all alike commit, of which he may
be conveniently accused.
This rule holds good of all laws. None are in force, unless it
be to satisfy the greed or spite of one of the ruling class. To this
there is however one important exception. There are certain
classes of Shouters whose duty it is to call attention constantly
to the evil-doer. These wisely concentrate their energies on some
one trivial matter it is not pleasing to the gods to mention
serious affairs at all, in any connection and they enforce the
laws most drastically for the moment, while the attention of the
people can be held. Thus, on my arrival, they had just condemned
a medicine man to Ten Years of Imprisonment for conscientious-advice-giving.
Other points were also most strange, even to me, an old explorer of many of the dark places of the earth. One essential
point of law is that a forbidden thing is no longer forbidden, if it
be called by another name. Thus, it is the custom of the country
to drink arrack from a calabash, coffee from a coco-nut; and it is

forbidden to drink arrack upon holy days. Those therefore who

wish to do so drink it from a coco-nut, and it becomes technically coffee. Similarly, in calling for the arrack, one must say:
bring bamboo-shoots. Thus is the law satisfied.
The object of enforcing laws in this sporadic manner is obvious. Suppose a merchant spend years of labor in the building up a big trade in silk. The Shouters then say: Behold this
villain, the greatest rogue that walketh upon the earth! Lo, he
conduceth to luxury and to vanity; and the morals of our women,
the purest albeit the fairest that be in all the world, are by him
corrupt. The indignation of the people is thus aroused, and
they bethink them of the law against silk. The merchant must
then pay all that he hath to the Shouters, so that they may not
see him.
This is a most salutary custom of this people. The merchant
hath ever the fear of the Law before his eyes. He is taught constantly the instability of human affairs, and so from a merchant
he becometh a philosopher.
The greater merchants, however, have found higher truths.
They themselves employ armies of Shouters, and none dare offend them. In their hands they have gathered all the images of
the God of the country, without which none may do aught without blasphemy, and blasphemy is the one crime that is always
and in all places punished, usually by death.
It is they that have destroyed or sequestrated all the specimens of Aquila Duplex, which is not fabulous at all, and may
still be found in the western districts of the country. But it has
been to their interest to persuade the ignorant that the bird is
but a fable, and that the oblong squares are the true God.
The evening being now come, I went forth into the marketplace to take the air; but no sooner had I come into their main
way, which they call broad (though it is narrow enough if one
compare it with the main street of any civilized town), and white,
although it has hardly a white building in all its length, than I
was assailed by the fearsome beast which is justly the dread of
the whole country, the terrible man-eating chicken . . .
(The remainder of this account has been deleted by the Censor.)





Apollon, qui pleurait le trpas dHyacinthe,

Ne voulait pas cder la victoire la mort.
Il fallait que son me, adepte de lessor,
Trouvt pour la beaut une alchimie plus sainte.
Donc, de sa main cleste il puise, il reinte
Les dons les plus subtils de la divine Flore.
Leurs corps briss soupirent une exhalaison dor
Dont il nous recueillait la goutte de lAbsinthe!
Aux cavernes blotties, aux palais ptillants,
Par un, par deux, buvez ce breuvage daimant.
Car cest un sortilge, un propos de dictame;
Ce vin dopal pale avortit la misre,
Ouvre de la beaut lintime sanctuaire
Ensorcelle mon ceur, extasie mon me!

Within a dim and starlit room last night,

Your heart to mine, astir like frightened wings,
Your dear lips saying mad, enchanting things,
I saw your strange eyes fill with faery light.
And suddenly I slipped from out To-day
And we were in some green and moon-mad place,
And as you smiled, and bent to kiss my face,
I knew that, somehow, we had found the way
Back to a Pagan passion and desire,
Back to an Age of golden, free-limbed Youth,
All Song and Rapture and courageous Truth,
The world at Springtide and the night on fire.
And we were bound no more by Time and Space,
No longer slaves of Subterfuge and Man,
And you who held me in your arms were Pan,
And I a dryad crushed in your embrace!





(The Minority Report of the Editorial Rooms.)

N the days of the military clan, men were more or less free
and equal. An ordeal was necessary for the attainment of manhood; a regular ceremony which was far from a joke. Only the
strong and clever could hope to attain the privileges of manhood. There was no specialization of labor. A man had to be
able to hunt and fight; a woman to cook and to do the work of
agriculture. There was hardly room for anyone but what might
be called the normal human being. One particularly lazy fellow,
well skilled in flattery, might get a job as tribal bard; but otherwise he would have to work like the rest. As a man got old,
beyond the period when skill and experience failed to compensate for lack of strength, he might become an elder by virtue of
his wisdom; and, of course, the best all-round man had a good
chance of becoming King. But there really was something like
equality of opportunity.

O-DAY all this is absolutely changed. Every important

branch of work is so specialized that a man must give his
whole life to his particular job for 40 years or more before he is
capable of holding his own in it. Such a man must obviously be
chosen from the start on the ground of inclination and capacity.
He must be allowed ample leisure. He must be secured freedom from all worries and anxiety, or he will never arrive at
competence. A university education is not nearly enough. It is
only a general ground-work. When a man leaves a university he
wants at least 10 years uninterrupted work in his particular line
before he even begins to succeed in it. In other words, the complexity of civilization demands an elaborate caste system. For
one thing, the habit of authority is absolutely necessary to any
one who is to fill a position of responsibility. Put a man who has
done menial work all his life into an important position. He
inevitably becomes a Jack in office, harsh, overbearing and
tyrannical. On the other hand, if you take a boy and give him
well trained servants, he will, when he becomes a man, get
things done with perfect suavity and good feeling and absence
of friction. That is why you can take a boy from Eton or Winchester and send him out to rule a province in India. The Competition-wallah, the boy of no birth or breeding who obtains a
position in the Indian Civil Service by intellectual merit, is a
disastrous failure.

HERE must however, be an end to all this talk of equality

of opportunity. It will always be necessary to have a great
majority of the population engaged in mechanical tasks. It is
evidently quite impossible to give every man and woman even
a university education. Most people have to earn their living by
the time they are sixteen. Even if this experiment were possible, it would be absurd, because the university education would
unfit the average individual for the necessary work of life. It is
no good to teach a man political economy and Greek, and then
set him to make rivets in a boiler factory for the rest of his life.

OW then are we to make an intelligent selection? The answer is perfectly obvious. Men are not by any means born
equal in the matter of intellectual capacity. Take the extreme
case of the Hottentot. No amount of teaching will get him to

count beyond the number five, owing to the limitations imposed

upon him by nature in the matter of fingers. The same holds
true to a limited extent even with Caucasians. It is quite true
that occasionally nature, in her merry mood, produces a genius
from very unlikely material. It may sometimes happen, for example, that a stock which has never exhibited any intellectual
distinction at all may get tangled up matrimonially with a lunatic, and by some lucky combination produce a genius.

UT we do not know enough about genius to take any practical steps along these lines. We are bound to deal with
averages; and there is nothing more certain than this, that ordinary talent, as opposed to genius, is to a very large extent inherited. The main objection to the hereditary principle is that families, after a long series of generations of distinguished men,
take to producing degenerates and imbeciles. It is the ordinary
biological curve. Now undoubtedly much mischief is wrought
by having a caste which is hereditary and nothing more, because the said degenerates and imbeciles interfere with the
working of the social machine. Our business is to get the right
man in the right place; and the hard and fast rule of primogeniture has in many cases worked badly. One may concede that
ultimately it is bound to work badly in all cases.

T seems to me that it would be easy enough to guard against

this difficulty. We must have a leisured class, we must have a
privileged class, or we can never get good men at all. The most
likely candidates are those whose fathers and mothers have
achieved distinction. This principle has been recognized in England by the practice of raising distinguished men to the peerage. The idea has been greatly abused by confirming nobility
upon the mere plutocrat. Yet when particularly undesirable
people have bought these titles, care has taken to make the seat
in the House of Lords end with the life of the ennobled bag of

UT how are we to prevent degenerates and imbeciles from

sitting in the highest councils of the nation? By the simple
process of clearing them out. It would be easy to arrange for a
test of manhood, a public test subject to public criticism, so that
no man could assume hereditary privileges without proving by
ordeal his right to it. These tests could and should be both physical and mental. These ideas are not opposed to democracy in its
true sense. We want the normal man to govern, and the normal
man means a man very far above the average, almost the ideal
man, just as normal eyesight is the kind of eyesight that only a
very few very lucky people possess.

HE socialistic idea that every man is as good as every other

man is comic. A great deal of rubbish has been written
lately about secret diplomacy. How can the ordinary man expect to give a sound opinion on the affairs of foreign countries,
when the very best men, specially trained for all their lives, are
constantly making the most stupid mistakes? Popular control
is out of the question, even in the smallest business house. How
then can we apply it with any common sense to the affairs of a




great nation? If the people were free to vote, what would they
vote for? Free lodging, free movies and free beer. I myself would
vote for free beer. Could you expect the lower East Side to vote
money for the encouragement of art or even of science? Of any
of the higher branches of human activity? Yet, the whole structure of society depends upon the cultivation of these higher
branches. Go and ask the ordinary working man whether he
would rather apply the national income to the reduction of rent
or to the study of histology! We should never have a cent for
anything pertaining to the most fundamental and necessary activities, if the choice were left to the people.

shame or sentimentality.

E must make a firm, almost a paternal bond, between the

lord and his dependents. If an employer were soundly
whipped whenever one of his men or women had a preventable
sickness, it would change things considerably! The happiest,
the most healthy, the most prosperous class in recent history
were the slaves in the South before the Civil War, wherever the
owner was a decent Southern Gentleman, and not a Yankee
nigger-driver, with no interest in the slaves beyond dollars. If
America is to survive, nay, to become a nation, it must be by the
development of an enlightened feudalism.

HAT then is the ideal form of government? The greatest

of all the political lessons of history is that society is
founded on the family, and the family on the land. A strong
agrarian class is the best defense against invasion, physical or
moral. A bold peasantry, its countrys pride, when once destroyed, can never be supplied. There is something in the contact with earth and air and water and sun which makes men
vigorous. All strong and stable states have had Cincinnatus for
a unit. The power of England has always lain in the landed
nobility and gentry. Each great estate has been the nucleus of a
peasantry with soul with a peculiar pride in itself. The
lords of the land, great or little, were also the fathers of the
people. Each took a particular and individual interest in each of
his tenants.
HEN this system began to break up, owing to the growth
of industrialism and of the power of money, the virility of
England broke with it. Fifty years ago the smallest squire had
more social consideration than the most wealthy merchant;
rightly so, for he was actually a part of the land itself. A rich
man could not become a squire by buying land; he became a

UT your plutocrat has no anchor in the soil; he calculates

coldly that it is cheaper to work a man to death than to look
after him. He does not know or care what becomes of those
dependent upon him. The idea of solidity of structure is gone
from the social system. America dwells in tents like the Arabs,
and may as silently fade away. Who in this colony feels in his
bones an attachment to ancestral Topeka? We go where the economic tide drifts us; and we do not go back because there is no
back to go to. Socialism (as most people seem to conceive it)
would make matters a thousands times worse if theres that
amount of room for further bedevilment; for Socialism ignores
all but the economic factor. Economics appeal only to the shell
of men, never to his soul. And it is the soul which determines
the action of a true man. A nation swayed wholly by economic
considerations is a nation lost alike to God and to man. Ill
fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay.

HE first business of government is to guard the hardihood

of the race. So we must see to it that every child is healthy
and well-fed, inured to sport, to hardship within certain bounds.
The spirit must be free, the passions strong and well regulated,
the intellect unhampered by old wives fables. We must assure
to every one the first necessaries of life, shelter, food, warmth
and the easy exercise of the power of reproduction, without

ET us not be frightened by a name! Reginald Front-deBoeuf was not the only type of Norman Baron. And the
world is a very different place to-day. We have a wretched habit
of being scared by words like royalty, Socialism, so that we
do not trouble to ask what such terms really mean. This is because we mix up our rational thoughts with our sentimental
emotions. There was never a moment in the worlds history
when it was more vitally important to think and to feel as if
with two separate organs. God gave the land to the people, as
the little hymn says; but He did not give them brains, or moral
courage, or the power of self-analysis. There is not one man in
ten thousand who knows whether his consciousness is colored
by reason or by passion.

PERSONALLY have found this power extremely awkward.

Just at present, for example, my heart clings to the great court
of Trinity closer than its immemorial ivy. All my imagination is
with the England of Harry the Fifth, and with the France of
Joan of Arc, and with the Russia of wild and mystic orgies. But
my intellect refuses to give assent to some of the propositions
made by the Allies. I am ready, with Drake, to singe the King of
Spains beard; or to tear the Kaiser from his gory throne, in a
moment of patriotic passion. But I am not prepared to sit down
and argue calmly that such actions are ethically right. All hail
to the vehemence and fury of war and of love! But not in these
trousers. I must first gird my loins with the saffron philabeg of
a dhuine-wassail! As a lover, it gives me extreme satisfaction to
riot amid the wine-stained and blood-bedabbled tresses of a
Messalina or a Catherine; but, as a philosopher, I seem to myself to have acted with brutish unreason. I maintain, briefly,
that Philip drunk is as good as Philip sober; but I cannot fall
into line with the man who asserts that Philip drunk is Philip
sober. And alas! that man is everywhere. You rightly enough
drop nine hundred and sixty-eight million tons of trinitrotoluene upon the head of a Saxon peasant whose only idea of you,
till then, has been vague and ill-etched. Perhaps he thought of
you as one of the people among whom his Uncle Fritz went to
live in 1849. You are right to drop that trinitrotoluene; it is a
splendid gesture. But the morning after? Even Antient Pistol
proved amenable. Ill fer him, and firk him, and ferret him;
discourse the same in French unto him! is followed by the mild
acceptance of a modest ransom.

OW this war is not to be settled by appeals to passion and

to sentiment. We have got to reconstruct the world on such
lines as may be best for all. We must use one quality only
common sense. We have got to be friends with Germany before


we sheathe the sword against her. The campaign of hate on both
sides is utter wickedness or complete insanity you pay your
money and you take your choice. We are not going to listen to
the drunken journalist who sneered the other day at the Friends
of Irish Freedom as bartenders and servant girls. His animus
was evident, for he attributed the ruin of his mind to the one,
and that of his body to the other, class. But, on the other hand,
we must shut our ears to the sentimental wails of the Irish
irreconcilables about Saxon tyrants. This historic injustice
business is plain vendetta, and as out-of-date as furbelows,
whatever they were.

E must attend to the genuine needs of each nation, and

heed not their cries of hysteria. Then, if there be indeed
incompatible needs (though, in the name of God who made
earth so wide and fair, how can there be?) if there be no way
of reconciling Englands need of a navy with Germanys need
of a place in the sun, then we can go on and fight it out some
more. But we shall never begin to talk peace till we begin to
think peace; and we shall never begin to think peace till we
have got ourselves into thinking, instead of feeling. And we


shall never do that until we realize that the two things are different.
A. C.


LOVE God only when I love thee most.

Censing the altar with the whispered shower
Of worship, I approach the holiest hour
When in the monstrance burns the blessed Host.
Landed on lifes chryselephantine coast,
I make the godly gesture of pure power.
The silence shrouds me like a folded flower
When all life lapses in the Holy Ghost.
How could I love God if I loved not thee,
Or love thee if I were not lost in God?
Could there be three unless those Three were One?
There is no shore to the celestial sea;
There is no pylon to the last abode,
The temple of our truth, Hilarion!


There was a sombre and a smoldering fire in the eyes of the
quiet man in the corner of the ingle. The remarks of the prohibitionist who was holding forth from the big arm chair seemed to
excite him, but one could hardly have said why. But when that
respectable gentleman paused for breath, the fire leapt up. May
I add my humble testimony? he said politely. I feel more
strongly than most men, I think, upon the subject. Were I to tell
you my story, perhaps you would admit that I had a right to do
so. The man from the Anti-Saloon League got out his note
book with undisguised enthusiasm. Cant we induce you to
tell it? he asked, scenting something sensational, nothing so
aids the cause as the recital of facts. Well, said the quiet
man, I dont mind if I do. I was married to a young and beautiful woman. We passed six years of which one could not pick out
a single month and say that it was not a honeymoon. She drank
herself into a lunatic asylum. He stopped there, very suddenly;
his words cut bitterly into the heart of every man in the room.
They were too shocked for even the conventional murmur of
sympathy. But the prohibitionist, with a smirk, asked for further details. I shall be happy to gratify you, sir, replied the
other, and there was a subcurrent of severity in his tone which
made one or two of the more sophisticated men present prick
up their ears. The quiet man lighted his cigar. My wifes father, he said, was vicar of one of the most important parishes
in London. His wife liked a glass of champagne with her dinner. However, in her position, it would not do. She had to set a
good example to the parish. At the same time she was not going
to give up her champagne, so she sent for a doctor who prescribed her champagne, and in order more effectually to silence
the voice of scandal, it was necessary to prescribe for the children as well. The eldest daughter, at the age of 16, was drink-

ing about a quart a day, by the doctors orders. She married.

Two years later, her husband died. Six years after that I married
her myself. Presently I discovered that whenever anything happened to depress her she sought consolation in alcohol. The
Puritan idea, the necessity of pretending to be what you are not,
had destroyed her sense of freedom. She did the drinking secretly. Ultimately the smash came. I had to be away for some
months on business. In my absence the baby died. I came back
to find her a hopeless dipsomaniac. I tried everything. Naturally it was useless. She lost all moral sense. I was compelled to
divorce her because she refused to follow the doctors last orders, to spend two years in a home. I would not stand by and
let her kill herself so long as I was morally responsible for her
moral welfare. Three months after the divorce, she had to be
put into a lunatic asylum.
A most striking story, said the prohibitionist, A most admirable story, a most useful story for our purpose. But the quiet
man rose to his feet. No, he said, my tragedy is not a tragedy
of alcohol, it is a tragedy of humbug. It is the rotten popular
Anglo-Saxon cowardice about the use of alcohol which leads
inevitably to its abuse. It is people like yourself that are responsible for all the drunkenness, for all the insanity, for all the
crime that people resort to. In countries where there is no feeling against alcohol, where, in honesty and decent freedom a
man can sit with his family and drink in the open, we find none
of these troubles. The prohibition orator became exceedingly
annoyed. I did not expect this treatment, he said, it is most
unwarrantable. I have no doubt at all, sir, that the poor woman
was driven to drink by your own brutal treatment. Yes, said
the other man, I can be both brutal and violent on occasion.
And he was.





The Herald of the King of Tyre, borne upon a chariot with
six white horses, made his way through the busy street.
In the name of the great god Melcarth, and in the Kings
name, he commanded that all strangers should leave the city
upon pain of death.
It was two weeks before the winter solstice, but in that glorious climate many a flower bloomed already in the gardens
of the inhabitants.
Cleon, the Greek merchant of Corinth, was prepared for the
warning of the herald, but he was none the less annoyed. He
had the commercial spirit, and it enraged him to find his business interrupted by a mere festival. He would not so much
have minded had Dodeh, his belovd for the period of his residence, agreed to accompany him. A holiday visiting the islands of the coast would have been agreeable if he had some
one to play the flute to him, and dance for him upon the deck
in the glow of sunset. But Dodeh had refused positively; her
religion came first in her life and Cleon, who was rather a
sceptic, sighed over the stupidity of fanaticism. He was angry,
too, for a somewhat contradictory reason. Since festivals must
be, he liked to see them. He fancied himself as a travelled
man, and he would have liked to bring back a great story to
Corinth in the spring. Still there was nothing for it but compliance; so he made a feast for Dodeh, bade her guard his
merchandise in his absence, and in particular to beware of the
advances of a certain saucy youth named Ramman, one of those
vagabonds who from all time has infested Eastern cities, living no one knows quite how.
He shall not called Ramman for nothing, frowned the
Greek, if he comes about my house in my absence. This was
a joke, for Ramman is derived from the verb ramamu, meaning to bellow.
Dodeh naturally assured the merchant of her eternal truth,
and very likely believed what she said; women usually do, at
the time. Their deceptions are successful because they are unconscious. They are all faithful, so far as they know; but when
it comes to action, it is the troll that rules them.
So Cleon took his men and his ship and put to sea; and
cruised among the islands till the period of the festival had
elapsed. By some error of calculation the ship master arrived
off Tyre some hours too soon.
The city lay in utter darkness; but on the beach a flame
shone out as if it were a beacon. Dawn broke, and they saw
that it was the smouldering effigy of a monstrous man, seated
astride a sea-horse proportionally enormous. When the pilot
came out with the official who represented the city, in order to
see that all was in conformity with Tyrian law, Cleon asked
the latter what this might mean and was solemnly assured that
the god had struck him with a thunderbolt. The strange sight
and stranger explanation struck the fancy of the Greek; and he
more than ever regretted that he was not entitled to witness
the wonders about which the people of the city made such
Dodeh received him with exceeding joy, which her demure
demeanor would not hide, for once. She was a woman of twenty
years old, of subtle loveliness. Rather short and plump, she

was built strong and sturdy; her round face was rosy through
its olive, and the effect was heightened by faint blue tattooings
on the cheeks and lips. Her eyes were fiery glints beneath
dark eyebrows blackened and drawn out with kohl. On her
upper lip a fine moustache the merest hint betrayed a
passionate temperament. She was silky and sullen and swift
and perverse, loving to tease her master with pretended indifference, only to overwhelm him with the greater vehemence
at the end, like a cat playing with a mouse. She had all the
stealth and self-possession of a cat, moreover; and Cleon
thought himself lucky to be beloved of one so skilled in every
art of pleasing and exciting. In short, she ended by winning
him wholly; for not content with the mere art of love, she had
made herself indispensable to his business, teaching him all
the tricks of the Tyrians, how they imitated ivory, and adulterated purple, and mixed silk and wool so that no ordinary eye
could distinguish the fraud. The result was that he carried her
off to Corinth with him when his business was done, and the
smiles of Grecian maids failed to disturb him; he had found
the one woman of the world. She presided in his house with
perfect dignity and charm; the philosophers whose company
Cleon affected were more than pleased with her modesty and
her education; for she could recite the poems of Sappho, and
of Alcaeus, and of Stesichorus and Pittacus and Hermesianax,
as well as she could play the flute and dance; while even sterner
subjects were familiar to her. She was well acquainted with
the philosophy of Pythagoras and of Heraclitus, and had even
studied Plato; while, to crown all, she possessed a very pretty
gift of divination by throwing handfuls of dried leaves into a
fire made of cedarwood and beeswax. She was not a mere
priestess of pleasure, it must be understood; she had been
brought up from infancy in the temple, and trained and consecrated to the service of the god.
Presently Cleon had to return to Tyre, and this time his voyage was so successful that he determined to establish a regular branch of his business in the city at the end of the summer.
It was July when he and Dodeh reached Corinth for the second
time, and so devoted was the lover that he made a great festival and married her. She readily acquiesced in the Greek ceremony, but made a single stipulation, that she should be allowed to hold in her hand some of the sacred fire from the
altar during the whole ceremony; for such, she said, was the
custom of her people, that the sun, the father of all fire and the
giver of all life on earth, might witness to her fidelity on the
one hand and make her fertile on the other. But she said this
laughingly, and Cleon thought that she cared little for her religion, but yet was half-consciously afraid to fail to carry out its
A month after the marriage they sailed once more for Tyre,
where Cleon purchased a large shop for his merchandise, and
a house with a garden in the suburbs. All autumn they lived
and loved in peace and in prosperity; then Cleon remembered
that he was still technically a stranger, and would have to leave
the city for the festival. He was much more annoyed than on
the previous occasion; for he had settled down with Dodeh,
and become fat and lazy; besides, he was all on fire to see the


ceremony of which he had only witnessed the aftermath. He
expressed his feelings in the plainest words to Dodeh. It was
the nearest approach to ill-temper he had ever shown.
She laughed in her most fascinating way. Dear baby, she
said, what a fuss about nothing! All you need do is to leave
the city openly and lie off shore a few miles out to sea; I will
get a little boat and come for you at night. You shall come
back here; I will disguise you, and we will see the ceremony
together except the last day, when women are not allowed
to participate. But I will tell you exactly what to do, and you
shall see everything. Cleon was enchanted at her ready compliance, and her quick solution; when the time came he left
Tyre in great state, taking a most affecting public farewell of
his wife, to throw as much dust as possible in the eyes of the
world. That night Dodeh did as she had said; they got back to
the villa without being observed, and though it was all dark
without, within were lights and flowers and a splendid banquet ready. Never had Dodeh been so hilarious as she was that
night; the slightest incidents seemed to amuse her, and in consequence she was equally amusing. They really behaved like
two silly children; one would have said they had been parted
for a year instead of a bare fraction of a day.
For the next three days the happy couple remained quietly
at home, save for an hour or so in the morning, when Dodeh
went to the market and the temple in order not to arouse
comment in the city. On the fourth day the festival was to
That morning Dodeh came home with quantities of live
quails, which Cleon had not seen before the festival. The explanation was that Asteria, the mother of Melcarth, was a quail,
and these birds might therefore not be eaten until the birth of
Melcarth, which was to be celebrated that night. Shortly after
sunset Dodeh dressed Cleon in the disguise of a slave and
made him carry the quails; and they went forth together to a
part of the city where they were not known. At every place
where four streets met a bale-fire blazed. Around these fires
the people were assembled, in great solemnity, every one with
bright clothes, and most of them carrying one or more live
quails, each according to his rank and wealth. Priests walked
up and down the street in twos and threes, chanting:
Rejoice! Rejoice!
O men of Tyre, rejoice!
O women of Tyre, clap hands!
Asteria your goddess is ill at ease.
She is bowed upon the arms of her handmaidens.
Cry aloud that Asteria may be delivered from her pain!
Let a man child be born unto Asteria, even the great god
Melcarth, Lord of Tyre.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Presently the song changed. It became surpassing slow and
sad. One priest began:
Now is the hour of the tribulation of Asteria. Another
Whence came Asteria?
From the fire of the sun.
What shall avail her to purge her of her tribulation?
The fire of the sun.
Then rose the voices of the priests in chorus:


Arise, ye people, let strength and beauty be born of Asteria,

mother of Melcarth, Lord of Tyre!
At that all the people shouted together, and began to leap
joyously across the flames, dropping the live quails into them
as they sprang. Cleon, following his wifes direction, imitated
them. As the quails began to roast, they were recovered from
the fire, and every one plucked and ate one then and there.
When every one had had his fill, the dance began; but Cleon
and Dodeh soon slipped away to the quieter pleasures of the
On the following day, it was evident that Melcarth had indeed been born; for there he stood in the great square that was
in the center of the city, in effigy, twenty feet high, upon a seahorse. Around him was a regular scaffolding of logs, with
sheaves of straw; in preparation, as Dodeh explained to her
husband, for the final bonfire. But this day was to be devoted
to the drama of the life of the great God. Dodeh had procured
a priests dress for Cleon, as through her association with the
temple she could easily do. They found a secluded station in
that part of the temple which was allotted to the priests and
priestesses and this was the only day in the year when
women were permitted to enter the holy place. This enabled
them to see perfectly without attracting any special attention.
At high noon the herald entered the temple and bade all
men mark the coming of the king. A minute later the rest of
the procession arrived. Cleon could see it through the open
door of the sacred building. First came a solid phalanx of
guards, in white tunics and buskins, with shields, corslets,
and helmets of carved and polished brass. They carried spears
which had been gilded in honor of the occasion. Next came a
company of horsemen, their trappings covered with fans of
peacocks feathers. After them came many priests; then the
company of the actors of the sacred drama, in the various disguises necessary; then other priests. Next came six gigantic
men of swarthy stature, bearing a gilded pole carved with representations of the deeds of Melcarth, and tipped with the image
of a pine-cone.
Last came the king, in a chariot of chased ivory and gold.
The car was swathed with a great curtain of true Tyrian purple,
against which the king showed marvellously, for he wore silks
of the richest blue over his golden armor, and in his helmet
with its crenellated circlet were seven white ostrich feathers.
In his hand he carried the sacred rod of office, for he was high
priest as well as king. About him the high ministers of state
bore each the symbol of his office.
At the temple the king descended, and did sacrifice at the
great altar where burned the perpetual fire. Only the priests
and the actors entered with him.
The king gave the signal, and the sacred play began. With
every detail the great legend of Melcarth was commemorated;
his conquest of the lion and of the dragon, of the Rivers of
Destruction and of the Untameable Sea-horse. They represented his cleansing of the land by rain, his fertilizing of the
desert by rivers; they showed how he had won the golden fruit
from the gardens of the Sunset, and how he had dragged back
his friend Mazib from the very heart of hell.
This was the climax of the mystery, for no sooner had the
rescued man embraced his savior than the king himself, leaving his throne, stepped forward as though to interrupt the proceedings. He lifted his staff, crying Woe, woe to the city of




Tyre! Melcarth saved Mazib, for Melcarth is a god, the strong,

the bountiful. But who shall save Melcarth? For Melcarth goeth
down into the grave! With that he cast his staff upon the
ground; he tore his blue robes from his shoulders; he unbuckled his golden armor, and let it clang upon the marble. Appearing only in a loose robe of black without any ornament, he
cast dust upon his head from a box presented by the priest
who acted as master of the ceremonies, and uttered a long
lament, full of terrible predictions as to what would happen to
the city when Melcarth was dead, ending every phrase with
the woeful question Who shall save Melcarth? Who shall save
the city of Tyre?
Presently all present began to join in this refrain; it spread
without the temple, all down the city streets through the ranks
of the assembled people. All tore their robes, all threw dust
upon their heads, all beat their foreheads. But now the youngest of all the priests came forward. He alone had not joined in
the lamentations; he had stood silent before the fire of the
altar as if lost in meditation, from time to time reaching his
hand out over the fire, or leaning his head towards it. He was
dressed, differently to the other priests, in a short tunic of
purple with a skirt to the knee, and a golden cord bound seven
times about his waist. On his head he wore a conical cap of
carved ivory, ornamented with horns like a bulls. He bore a
bow and seven small blunt arrows. Standing before the king
he shot the arrows one by one into the air, while all stood
silent. Then he spoke.
An oracle of the god, O King!
The word of Melcarth to the City of Tyre!
Melcarth must die, but he must live again!
The king answered with the old phrase: Who shall save
Melcarth? Who shall save the City of Tyre?
The young man answered: An oracle of the god, O king! A
man that is a stranger shall save the City of Tyre!
The king lifted his voice, as if appealing to the people: Is
there any stranger in the City of Tyre?
Immediately confusion arose, every man pretending to examine his neighbor. After a few moments the king repeated
his question, and again the pretended search was made. For
the third time the king asked: Is there any stranger in the City
of Tyre? and this time the answer rolled back, a dirge of utter
woe, from every part of the whole city, and even from the suburbs and the surrounding fields and hills, where men had been
specially stationed for this part of the ritual, the idea being to
include the whole dominion in the sacred formula. With one
voice the priests and the people cried aloud: There is no
stranger in the City of Tyre! At that the entire population
gave themselves up to frenzies of affected woe, dispersing
gradually to their homes, where they were to abstain from food
and from the kindling of any fire, until the morrow. Cleon and
Dodeh, profoundly moved by the significance of this strange
rite, returned to their villa, and sat, as the ritual prescribed,
by the dead ashes of the hearth, lamenting till the dawn.
The critical moment for Cleon was to arrive on the third
day of the feast, for no women might accompany the men, so
his wife said. Every man must wear a particular disguise, and
she had been at pains to prepare one and conceal it in the
house of a friend who lived in the great street which led to the
center of the city. Cleon would thus have only about half a
mile to walk to see the burning of the effigy of Melcarth, and

there would be little chance of detection. So a little before

noon they reached the house appointed. The street was already
lined with guards for the ceremony, but Dodeh giving a sign to
the officer, she was allowed to enter with Cleon. Here she
removed his slaves dress, which she had made him wear to
explain his presence with her, and proceeded to adorn him for
the ceremony. She produced a jar of some sticky substance
like resin, stained purple with the famous dye, and covered
him from head to foot with it. Over this she threw a lions
skin, and in his hand she put a club. We must wait till the
procession comes, she said, then you can glide out of the
house and mingle with it; no one will notice you. Walk up to
the great square with them, but do not speak to any one. Your
accent though its delightful, heart of my heart! would
give you away at once, and it would be terribly dangerous for
you to be recognized as a stranger. We dont like our mysteries spied on; only, I love you!
Minutes passed by; Cleon began to find this costume extremely hot and the sacred paint peculiarly irritating; but it
was worth it. Presently a noise of chanting down the street
told them that the procession was near; Cleon, trying hard not
to scratch, slipped out of the door. The street was now full of
people, many of them in fantastic attire. The sun blazed down
upon the scene, and Cleon felt hotter and more uncomfortable
than ever. But he was full of strange excitement; the fierce
atmosphere of the festival seemed to have communicated itself to him.
In a few moments the head of the procession appeared. It
was formed by priests, all wearing the masks of various wild
beasts and bearing flaming torches. As he turned to look, the
street suddenly cleared; the people had all moved to the side
behind the steel-clad line of guards. He realized that he was
alone; but instead of retiring among the others, he felt that
that was the one thing he could not do. He felt a kind of madness surging in his brain, and at the same moment he realized
that the procession was no longer chanting, but roaring and
howling in imitation of the wild beasts whose masks they wore,
and that they were charging him. He bounded madly up the
street toward the square; the crowd joined in at his heels, and
above the cries he heard the jubilant call of the people:
Melcarth shall live again! Tyre shall be saved!
He reached the square; it was full of men and women with
flaming torches on every side. His blood boiled with the frenzy
of excitement; he knew that he was shouting in mad glee
mingled with horror. Suddenly a flash of sanity came to him;
he saw that he was in danger. He dashed at an opening of the
square, but the flaming torches closed upon him. The agony of
the poisoned paint was now insufferable; he bounded to and
fro, raving he knew not what. Ever the torches seemed to hem
him in.
And then the darkness fell from his eyes; a great illumination seized him; he must take refuge with Melcarth, with
Melcarth who must die and live again. In an ecstasy he bounded
upon the pyre; he climbed over the great logs; he caught the
stirrup of the god, and hoisted himself on to the shoulders of
the sea-horse. As he did so a thousand torches were plunged
into the straw, and the flames roared up to heaven. But through
them he saw one thing with the last flash of sanity and life; it
was Dodeh, in her harlots dress, lying back in the arms of
Ramman, laughing and clapping her hands.




(Written in the Dark Ages Before the War.)

ERMANY, to borrow the phrase of a teetotaler, is the classic land of moderate drinking. Out of Germany came the
temperance drink, beer. Bacchus Dionysos has found many singers. Gambrinus is unsung, if not unhonored, of poets. Yet is not
the hop as fragrant as the grape? I am convinced that many poets
who celebrate the vine have been inspired by beer. But beer doesnt
rhyme well. We deem it a word without literary traditions. Still,
the history of beer is ancient and honorable, and its literature
reaches back to the dusk of the Pagan gods. Julian, the Apostate,
was the first contributor to the literature of beer. He wrote a satirical poem against it. He also wrote satirical poems against the
Christians. But the pale Galilean has conquered. And, strange as
it may seem, beer has been a steady companion of Christian expansion.
The watchword Bibles and Beer is applicable in a sense
unsuspected by those who reproachfully coined it. When the Roman world power, the bulwark of Paganism, was demolished,
the beer of the Teutons supplanted the Pagan wine. At first the
odor of heathen festivals attached to the brew of Gambrinus. But
the wary Church adopted it along with the holidays of the heathens, and it was brewed in the monasteries. And in the drinking
songs of the Germans, pans of Christ were substituted for the
pans of Wotan. The Salvation Army and the Protestant churches
seem to adhere to the same ecclesiastical policy; they both bawl
devotional hymns to the rousing tunes of the convivial songs of
the German student.
The good monks of the Middle Ages served Bacchus and
Gambrinus with equal zeal. Chronicles tell of a hop garden near
the monastery of Freising, in 768. The Swedish bishop and celebrated chronicler, Olaf Magnus, remarked in 1502 that the wine
in the South and the beer in the North were steadily improving.
The papal legate, Raimundus Lucullus, justified his cognomen
by a rapturous tribute to the beer brewed in Hamburg. Martin
Luther was a jolly good fellow. It goes without saying that he
sanctioned beer.
Of course, the beer we drink today is superior to the beer of the
ancient Germans. If Julian had drunk Pilsener, his poetic philippic
against beer would have remained forever unwritten. He suffered
his life long from indigestion. His temper in consequence was
splenetic. He lost his empire because his temper ran away with
him. Beer would have saved both his empire and his temper. If
Hamlet had been acquainted with Wrzburger, pessimism would
not have enthralled him. His family skeleton would not have rattled
through five weary acts of Shakespeare. We might have had a
comedy of Hamlet.

EER is the lubricant in the wheels of history. Its salutary

effect on the digestion has been established by the Imperial
German Board of Health. And long before the German Empire
had been founded, a shrewd New Testament character advised a
young Apostle to indulge in mild alcoholic beverages for his weak
stomachs sake and his often infirmities. Alcohol exercises a recognized function in the religious ceremonies of all civilized na-

tions. The Mohammedans, who substitute constant sexual stimulation for temporary alcoholic excitement, have lagged behind in
the race of the worlds evolution. If teetotalism ever vanquishes
temperance in the United States, we shall present a spectacle
more saddening than Turkey.
I have never been able to understand why so many parsons
seem to be anxious to controvert the first miracle of the Lord. If
Christ had been a teetotaler, he would not have changed the water into wine even at his mothers request. He would have turned
the wine into sarsaparilla. I am not a Christian minister, but I
would not dare dilute with ineffectual words the miraculous wine
of Cana.
An American teetotaler has recently drawn an interesting comparison between the American and continental method of receiving guests. We, he fondly points out, salute our visitors by urging
upon them the necessity of lavatory procedures. Do you want to
wash your hands? the American host solicitously inquires. The
continental host, however, welcomes his guests with an honest
libation. The point is well taken, and illustrates the superior manners of the civilized European. Why should he insult his guests
by impugning their cleanliness? Let me inform the writer, in case
he should be again tempted to travel abroad, that the continental
host expects his guests to wash their hands before they come to
his house. May he profit by this information!
What should we offer a guest but the aromatic blood of the
hop, or the sparkling gold of the grape? If we were Oriental despots, we might add to these a beautiful slave girl. The laws of the
land and economic considerations unfortunately compel us to dispense with these affecting tokens of appreciation and friendship.
Shall they also bar wine? Libations have been poured wherever
friends have met since the days of Homer. The wisdom of the
East, and the traditions of our Teutonic sires, both emphasize the
philosophy of drink. The soul, as Leibnitz has said, is a house
without windows. The lock of the door is incrusted with Care.
Self-consciousness, with seven-iron bands, barricades the entrance. Alcohol is the magic key that unlocks the door. Comparative strangers are transfigured and gladdened by the magic of
friendship when it has spoken its Sesame. Irksome barriers, which
normally only years of close communion could have shattered,
are obliterated for the time being. The soul, escaping from its
cage for a little while, sings and soars like a bird.

EOPLE on the continent, especially Germans, take their

drinks with refinement. They drink as they live sthetically.
We neither live nor drink in beauty. We spend large amounts of
money on drinking. But the subtleties of the Bacchic ceremonial
escape us. We are novices in the service of the good god
Gambrinus. That is the reason why our waiters despise us. You
must have noticed the supercilious servility and condescending
smile of the French or the German waiter when you give him
your order. He looks down upon us as Barbarians.
The German thrives on the light glass of beer or wine with his
meals; whiskey he abhors. We are killed off daily and hourly in




the dairy restaurants. We shall never have an American art while

we subsist largely on icewater. The plutocratic few are well provided in clubs and expensive eating-places. The average American depends for his lunch on the dairy. Saloons are often uncomfortable and obnoxious. What we need is Childs with the added
inspiration of spirits. In Germany, you find such places everywhere. The most famous chain of restaurants is Aschingers, a
sort of inspired Childs.
Dr. Magnus Hirschfeld, in his brochure entitled The Gullet of
Berlin, avers that every second house in the German metropolis
is a place where alcohol in some form is vended. Yet drunkenness is almost unknown. That is because people refrain, as a rule,
from strong liquor. I am not one of those who would bar even
liquor. There are times when it is both safe and delightful to take
a cordial. But a cordial isnt a drink. It is a stimulant, and,
taken in excess, a poison. Until he can imprint indelibly upon our
brains the difference between a drink and a stimulant, let us keep
our hands from the whiskey flagon. Who, by the way, is the god
of Cognac?
We have the deplorable tendency to vulgarize things. We
cheapen literature in magazines. The Sunday Supplement is the
degradation of art. We degrade marriage and love in the courtroom. And we make drinking abominable through vulgar and
injudicious excesses. We are like the early Christians who dethroned the gods of the Pagans and made them monstrous and
wicked. Jupiter was anathematized as a devil. Mercury was looked
upon as a thief. Phbus Apollo became an evil sorcerer, Cupid
an imp of hell, and the mother of Cupid
The obscure Venus of the hollow hill,
The thing transformed that was the Cytherean,
With lips that lost their Grecian laugh divine. . . .
But the woe of the ancient gods was not ended. It remained to
the New World to contort the loveliness of Bacchus and the benign smile of Gambrinus into the hideous grimace of the Demon

ERMANY, as I have said, is the mother of moderation. We

can learn from her, but we can learn more from Denmark.
The Germans are naturally moderate. The Danes incline to drunkenness. And we, I am afraid, are more like Danes than Germans.
There is a certain instability in our national temperament that
will no doubt disappear when the fusion of races has produced
the American type.
The Danish brewing industry is of recent growth. In 1840, only
one hundred and fourteen persons, all in all, were engaged in the
business, including the workmen. In those days Demon Rum held
undisputed sway over Denmark. The Danes were drowned in
liquor. Their bodies, soaked with rum, withstood the teeth of corruption in the grave. It was dangerous to strike a match in the
propinquity of one of Hamlets compatriots. Perhaps the plight of
the Danish people and of their neighbors, the Swedes, has been
responsible for the safety match. I am, however, not prepared to
make an affidavit on this.
At any rate, about 1870, the temperance wave struck the little
kingdom. The leaders of the movement discerned with rare sagacity that intemperance could be fought only with a light alcoholic beverage. They talked to the brewers, and the brewers talked
to each other. After some scratching of heads, they finally produced a light beer pleasant to the taste, containing a small percentage of alcohol. Later on the State took a hand in the matter by

levying a heavy tax on all beers containing more than 2!/4 per
cent. of alcohol by weight. Beer with only 2!/4 per cent. of alcohol
was not taxed at all. The consequence was that all breweries
opened up plants for the production of temperance beer.
One-half of all the beer produced in Denmark is temperance
beer. They speak of this beer as non-alcoholic. Avowed advocates of temperance relish it. It is kept on tap in every saloon. If
you go to Denmark, by all means try non-alcoholic Pilsener
and non-alcoholic Muenchener. The Danish brewer is forbidden by law to brew beer with over six per cent. alcohol. Beer has
almost entirely supplanted rum in Denmark. It is beer alone that
has saved Denmark and Sweden from toppling to drunkards
graves. If I were a painter, I would depict Temperance with a jug
of foaming Pilsener bearing the legend: In this sign thou shalt
Denmark, too, has a few extremists who clamor for the total
elimination of alcohol. They have established model saloons,
where a drink called Sinalco, or Liquorless, is vended. With
heroic determination I tasted this sickening concoction. The innkeeper, a retired officer of the army, looked at me half in pity, half
in scorn. Do you drink this horrid stuff? I queried. Yes, he
replied; in fact, Sinalco is excellent with an admixture of
whiskey. That, it seems to me, is an amusing illustration of the
failure of absolute prohibition.
It was Mnsterberg who recently knocked the bottom out of
the prohibition argument. He restated for the New World the experience of the Old when he affirmed that the human system
absolutely needs a stimulus of some kind. If we abolish alcohol,
sexual and other irregularities will take its place. The anti-liquor
people were foaming at the mouth. Mnsterbergs arguments could
not be shaken nor his authority questioned.
The professional prohibitionists remind me of the exorcists of
olden days. The people came to them to drive out devils. The
tribes of magicians and medicine men waxed fat and happy, until
humanity discovered that there were no devils at all, and that, at
any rate, they could not be driven out. The antagonists of temperance in the prohibition camp have humbugged the American
people by their pretense of driving out Old Nick, when lo, Professor Mnsterberg lifted the veil from their sham, and we discovered that alcohol was not a devil.
Meanwhile Demon Rum throve and flourished, until he has
come to be really a menace. You can fight wildfire effectually
only with fire. You can fight liquor only with beer. But, of course,
had the Demon been properly subjugated, the officials of the AntiSaloon League would have been out of a job. Its a mighty dangerous thing to oppose an enemy by mercenaries whose existence depends on keeping that enemy alive!
They are very clever, these Anti-Saloon Leaguers. But when
theyre up against an honest man, they dont understand. They
invented a pretty little trap for the Harvard professor. Through
three different literary agencies they swamped him with flattering offers from an alleged group of brewers who were very anxious indeed to have him write an article on the advantage of drinking beer Money no object. The professor dropped the missives into his waste-paper basket.
Let those who favor total abstinence follow the lead of the new
International Association. Let them investigate coolly and calmly.
Meanwhile let us profit by the experience of Europe. Triumphantly
on an ocean of beer the Ship of Temperance reaches its destined





I have four reasons for objecting to the Campaign of Hate. (1)
I mention the first only to earn a sneer. It is this: By hating we
damage ourselves. We undo our progress from the savage state
toward the brotherhood of man.
Also, we fool ourselves by regarding our brothers as monsters. Consul Litton, in his explorations of the Upper Salwin
Valley, found most hearty welcome in every village on his journey north. Yet in every village the elders warned him that he
could not go on, because the people of the next village were
not, like his informants, quiet, peaceable, civilized folk, but
thieves and murderers, with a specialty in poisoned bamboos,
pitfalls and spring traps. They were also cannibals. What asses
hate and ignorance make of man!
(2) The Campaign of Hate, in the second place, has upset
everybodys nerves. To conduct war properly, one must be calm
and business-like. Now could I drink hot blood and do such
bitter business as the day would quake to look on is quite unnecessary in the conferences of a Great General Staff. The man
who loses his temper in a fight will probably lose the fight.
(3) The Campaign of Hate, in the third place, involved the
Campaign of Lies. We are thoroughly muddled mentally, in consequence. In the same issue of the same paper we learn from
General Maurice that Germany is beaten to a standstill; from
General Pershing that America is up against a much bigger
proposition than any of the Allies, and from others that there is
no food in Germany; that England has no more ships; that
Cadorna is thundering at the gates of Vienna; that Von
Hindenburg is on his way to Petrograd, et cetera ad nauseam,
until we have absolutely no idea what is happening, and therefore no idea what ought to be done. In England the lie about the
million-odd Russian troops in Flanders stopped recruiting; so
did the lie that the Germans were such cowards that they dared
not advance except behind a shield of old Belgian women; so
did the lie that Lige was holding out. If Germany is starving
and on the point of revolution, why should we send troops? Hate,
and fear, and falsehood, are the worst heart-tenants in any human necessity, but worst especially in war. The man who faces
the facts in cold blood, who kills out all emotion, is the man
who gives the best chance to the Will to Conquer.
(4) The fourth reason concerns the future. The Campaign of
Hate makes it very difficult for us to come back to Common
Sense. President Wilson has emphasized this point again and
again in his notes. We are not fighting the German people, or
even their rulers; we are attempting to break their Political Will.
Von Bernhardi explained long ago that this was the true object
of any war. Once we break the enemys Political Will, peace
follows naturally, and we can all be friends again. But how can
we be friends with monsters, assassins, Huns? The press, with
Hamlet, must, like a whore, unpack its heart with words, and
fall a-cursing like a very drab, a scullion. What contemptible
moral weakness! Could not the President have gone one step
further, and asked the newspapers to refrain from epilepsy?
But it is only the public who are thus intoxicated with the
hashish of hate. The rulers are busy measuring real advantages.
I think the time has come to summarize the situation, and to

propose a solution. The weakness of the Popes note was that

its appeal was sentimental.
The real enemies in this war are England and Germany.
America may be eliminated, for she, by her own showing,
wants no material advantages.
France can be eliminated by the restoration of Alsace and
Lorraine. Let us give her so much, for the sake of a little quiet,
and proceed.
Russia has eliminated herself, for her Political Will has been
broken by revolution.
Belgium, Servia and Roumania have been eliminated by destruction.
We may then say that the obstacle to peace is single, the conflict of the two unbroken Political Wills of England and Germany.
How may this conflict be composed? Firstly, one of the two
may be broken. But the objection to this solution is that whichever won would be at once confronted by a new set of opposing
wills. Neither France nor America could tolerate a complete
English victory any more than a complete German victory. The
defeat of England would throw open the competition for the
mastery of the sea; that of Germany would leave England intolerably powerful.
Now, it must be observed that at present England and Germany are both heavy winners. Surely it is sensible for them to
have cold feet and break up the game! Peace without victory sounds awfully silly to a victorious people. From a slave
State it is the natural whine, and sounds much better than Vae
Victis. England has lost nothing so far but a few ships and
men; on the other hand, she is in possession of four-fifths of the
territory of the German Empire!
Germany has lost ships and men, no integral territory; and
she is in possession of immense tracts of conquered country.
Why, then, do not England and Germany call it off, shake
hands, and go out for a drink? Where is the essence of the conflict? What is it that England cannot endure? There are two
vital points: one, the mastery of the seas; two, the control of the
route to India. Germany is threatening both these, by (1) the
submarine campaign and her naval program; (2) the advance to
Asia, the Drang nach Osten. Germany, on the other hand, cannot possibly endure the complete cutting off of her commerce,
the grip of the Ring of Iron. Is it possible to come to terms on
these points? I think so. Both parties are absolutely right; for it
is life or death in both cases.
I think that Germanys need of expansion can be satisfied,
and the iron ring broken once for all, by an agreement on the
part of England to allow her the fullest development, by annexation, in Germanized Russia. The change is, in addition, about
the only hope for Russia herself. Non-Germanized Russia might
be made stronger and smaller under a Cossack Tsar. We have,
then, the conception of a Mittel-Europa from the Rhine to the
Ural Mountains. In return for this, Germany should withdraw
her threat to Englands naval supremacy by permitting a reconstituted and strengthened France, to include Belgium, and possibly by offering Heligoland as a naval base to England. The




war has shown the worthlessness of navies for attack upon any
mainland; and England is an Island Empire with a right to hold
open her channels of communication. Germany would also agree
to a limitation of her fleet; in fact, she would no longer need
this weapon.
The only possible access to India save by sea is through Afghanistan and Beloochistan. The idea of invasion through the
Pamirs is a joke at least fifty times as funny as that of invading
Austria through the Trentino. England must, therefore, be allowed to defend herself by expansion towards Persia if necessary. The Turkish Empire must be reconstituted and consolidated on a religious basis, and united under a Caliph. This will
act as a big buffer state between India and Mittel-Europa. The
Turks, on the other hand, must abandon Palestine to the English, for the weak spot in Englands communications would
then be the Suez Canal. This, however, would not be so vital,
once India became impregnable.
A matter of further benefit would be the federation of the
South American republics, and a Latin league of France, Spain,
Portugal and Italy. The outlying States, Scandinavia, Holland,
Switzerland and Greece would gradually be forced into one or
other of the great combinations by the peaceful pressure of economic forces.

It is true that Germany, under this scheme, would be forced

to surrender her South American and African ambitions. But
the South American adventures were mainly commercial, and
the proposed scheme would rather help than hinder them. As to
the German colonies, they were a weakness. Germany has no
talent for dealing with alien psychologies, and is not the collapse of the Russian menace and the gain of that huge territory
a more than adequate compensation?
We should thus have a simplified and concentrated planet, as
a preliminary step towards world federation.
(1) The Island Empire Brittania.
(2) The Latin League (includes N. Africa).
(3) Mittel-Europa.
(4) Islam.
(5) Cossack Russia.
(6) Mongolia.
(7) The North American (Anglo-Saxon) Republic.
(8) The South American (Latin) Republic.
If England and Germany can agree on some such programme,
there is nobody who can stop them. (Except, of course, the unconquered and unconquerable U. S. A.)
I heartily commend this plan to the consideration of all parties concerned.


Since childhood she had been with me, disturbing my peace,
mocking at content, filling me with wild restlessness, with
strange longings.
I grew up. I knew love. . . . Did I know love? She shook her
head derisively. She laughed at his reverential tenderness. She
made mock of the sanctuary of our affection. It was then I rose
up against her! I thrust her out of my life for ever. And, to be
sure she never would return, I chained her with an iron will,
deep, deep, into the darkest dungeon of my heart so deep, so
dark, that I never dared to look into it again.
The years passed. I lived a life of quiet, peaceful happiness
wifehood, motherhood I quite forgot the silent partner
who lay fettered and twisted, far from sunlight and life and
love. . . . Perhaps she had died?
One magnificent autumn day, ablaze with gold and scarlet
and lapislazuli, the fulness of life suddenly thrilled me, overpowered me. . . . Oh! all that had gone before seemed so drab,
so poor, so meaningless. I heard a call insistent, throbbing, irresistible. And I followed, intoxicated, delirious I became queen
in a universe of passionate glories.
And then, of a sudden, my silent partner stood before me
wan, tortured, perverted. She had broken her chains. She had
arisen terribly. Flame-eyed and insatiable, she drove me from
orgy to orgy. And in the fulness of my frenzy she slew me.

A yellow satin ribbon across the mat ivory of her frail shoulder held up the tattered batiste chemise. Long black silk stock-

ings shimmered on her slender legs. And her delicate feet, in

yellow pompommed slippers, tapped the floor impatiently. She
had thrown off her peignoir, let down her red hair, and prepared to go to bed, yet could not find courage to carry out this
resolution. To turn out the light to lie alone in the dark;
alone with that horrible feeling of forsakenness and blankness; alone in the awful stillness which only the thumping of
her own bleeding heart would interrupt. . . . It was impossible! She smoked cigarette after cigarette. Stretched out on
her couch-bed she tried to read. Then made the round of the
studio, examined wet canvases without seeing them, picked
up open tubes and flung them down again. . . . Horribly useless, this business called life. What does it all matter, when
love is gone? And who can hold love? Oh, misery! misery!
And still so many years to live. To live alone. Or would he
come back? Could he come back? Oh if only for a little
while! Oh, to see him just once more his dark face, his
black eyes, to smell his tobacco breath, to feel the grasp of his
strong hand. . . . One oclock no he would not come
back. This time all was over for ever she felt it, she knew
it. But perhaps to-morrow? He might regret repent he
might come for breakfast, like the last time. Oh! jolly, happy,
divine breakfast! No, no, never again. His love was dead. She
knew it. And would he love some other woman? Would his
eyes burn into anothers eyes, his kisses crush anothers mouth!
God God this was hell. She could not bear it. She would
not. She must make an end now immediately.
With feverish hands she felt for a tiny Japanese dagger he
once had given her. It must end her agony
Yet he might come to-morrow!





De Luxe Annie is clever, but unreal. It is science, but it is
not convincing. The first two acts are thrilling, but the last scene
of the third act is a trifle absurd. Though possibly true to life, it
is not true to art. However, with a little rewriting, De Luxe
Annie can be made theatrically a real success. It belongs to the
same category as The Thirteenth Chair, though technically it
is inferior. In spite of its flaws we must admit that the play
enthralls nine-tenths of the time. This is more than we can say
of nine-tenths of the plays now running on Broadway.

them that unless they do exactly what their mother wishes they
will be assailed by life-long regret after she is dead. This loathsome superstition is utterly false. I think that the best reform
would be to kill all women as soon as they have borne, say, two
children. It should at least be a plank in any reasonable platform of reconstruction. Whether they should be eaten is a matter of economics and of dietetics, somewhat beyond the scope
of a mere theatrical notice.

I saw Friend Martha at the Booth Theatre last night. There

was a lot of early William IV stuff; the old ancestors picture
that slides and admits the hero by a secret passage, and the
indignant father, and all that sort of elopement drivel. But what
killed the play is the characteristic Americanism, the theme of
mother-love (excuse my blushes). Let us write a warning upon
its tomb. Freuds theory is apparently something as follows: In
the prenatal stage of existence there is complete peace. (Do not
ignorantly compare this with Nibbana!) All wants are satisfied
without struggle or anxiety. At birth the child is forced into a
strange and possibly hostile universe, and the cry which accompanies the first entrance of the air into the lungs is supposed to
be a cry of pain. As a matter of fact, I see no evidence that pain
is felt. However, the want soon asserts itself, and this is assuaged by the return to the mother. The child thus learns to run
to its mother in any distress, and this habit persists to a great
extent during life. Death itself, the final release from pain, is
gained by a return to the great mother of all the earth. The
hero, on the contrary, spends his time in getting away from the
mother. Thus, the Oedipus-complex is the formula of cowardice. It is evident that the man who marries in order to have a
home is using this formula. He wants his pies made the way
mother used to make them. But it does not follow that chastity
in the ordinary sense of the term is necessary for the hero. Why
should not the hero accept death (or love, as you may call it), in
order to assist him to break away from the infernal mother? I do
not see anything unmanly in the marriage by capture. Of course,
one may say that it is the satisfaction of a need by means of a
return to a symbolic mother, and that the hero should only satisfy such needs as do not involve any such formula. But as long
as it is a case of conquest I do not think that this position can be
maintained. One might, however, agree that it is wrong to yield
to seduction; that one should have nothing to do with any women
but the unwilling. There is a great deal to be said for this point
of view. Certainly at least, the habit of going to a woman for
rest and comfort has a deplorable effect upon the soul. Most
certainly in point of fact and experience, it is impossible to work
unless you can conquer the impulse to wear carpet slippers after a long day at the office. It is really a question of Nietzches
Be Hard, My Brethren. Thus, Platonic love, in the highest
and hardest sense of the word, is more moral than any other
form of affection. It is clear, therefore, that pacifism is the direct result of the cult of the mother. Everything that is shameful
and cowardly is implied in the love of the mother. One of the
most abominable tricks which people play on children is to tell

Adolf Bolms Ballets-Intime is sublimated vaudeville; as such,

it is great. Itow is a Japanese dancing in a Japanese manner;
Bolm, himself a Russian, dancing in a Russian manner.
Roshanara is an English woman with a French temperament,
and there is no pretense of Orientalism in her Oriental dances,
which therefore please. She does them in a purely Parisian
manner. But Ratan Devi tries to sing Indian songs in a truly
Indian manner, and her mimicry succeeds so well that she really finds self-expression by dint of technical excellence. Alas!
it is not the soul of India that she expresses; it is the suburban
housemaid with a passion for the Bow Bells Novelettes. She
translates Marie Corelli into Sanskrit for us, and the result is
intensely gratifyingly to lovers of Marie Corelli. It is only fair to
say that the conditions were all wrong for her. Last year, when
the whole theatre was devoted to her alone, the effect was much
better. Mr. Bolm put her on a mat, outside the curtain, and no
doubt she felt forced to adopt a coarseness and theatricalism in
voice and gesture which were exquisitely absent at her regular
recitals. But give me Roshanara, and give me Mitchio Itow!
Real French or real Japanese but not any imitations. The
American Supers who assisted Mr. Bolm were doubtless amateurs who paid him highly for the privilege of appearing with
him: we except the very charming Butterfly.

Scientifically speaking, there is a great deal to be said in

favor of Mr. William Le Barons ideas on eugenic marriages as
expressed in his last play, The Very Idea. This delightful comedy, however, does not take itself too seriously. You will not
come away a firm believer in eugenics, but you will feel very
much like that enthusiastic Frenchman who shouted down from
the pit on the opening performance of Le Misanthrope: Courage, Moliere! That is good comedy.
Unfortunately for the theatre in this country, we hear very
little of the author. The name of the star is written across the
sky in electric letters. The name of the author, if mentioned at
all, appears in six-point type somewhere in the program.
Therefore we will leave it to others to praise Ernest Truexs
notable work in The Very Idea. Our chief concern is to boost
Mr. William Le Baron, for when a man has done good work that
is the time you must stand by him. (Of course this will be disputed.) George Jean Nathan recently stated that there were some
other things beside the Star-Spangled Banner which make
him stand up. We arise to honor any American who can write so
brilliant a play as The Very Idea.
J. B. R.





Philistine and Genius, by Dr. Boris Sidis. Boston: Richard

G. Badger.
This essay on education appears certain to become a classic.
With extraordinary acumen Prof. Sidis discovers the primary cause
of all our evils to be the violation of the biological law which
provides for variation. Variation is the means of evolution. Our
whole educational system is directed to stamping out every departure from type. What we really do is to place the most stupid,
the most bound, the most cowardly, upon a pedestal. Procrustes
is our ideal educator. We cramp genius, we punish originality, we
stifle inquiry, we place our children in Rooms of Little Ease where
they can neither stand, sit nor lie with comfort. Our sex taboo,
our religious taboo, our social taboo are omnipotent. We deliberately crush out all originality by these three engines of torture.
Prof. Sidis does not mention it, but one of the reasons why
such genius as we have is so enormously removed from the common level is that the genius, in order to develop at all, must be
originally endowed with almost superhuman moral strength. The
gap between him whose spirit has not been broken and him in
whom education has been a success grows constantly wider
with the perfection of our methods for suppressing him. It is quite
true, as Prof. Sidis says, that every child has latent genius. The
doctrine of the New Aeon is Do what thou wilt shall be the
whole of the Law, which is explained by stating that, Every
man and every woman is a star. The trouble arises from the
forcing of these stars into collisions by the distortion of their orbits.
The business of the educator is to discover the true will of the

child, the purpose for which he was born upon this planet, and to
assist him to develop that will to the highest possible point; to
remove the restrictions from that will so far as possible. Our
present method is the precise contrary of this. No sooner does a
child manifest tendency towards and capacity for any given investigation than the teacher takes alarm. It is the old fable of the
Ugly Duckling.
We hope that Prof. Sidis will not rest upon his oars. A. C.

The Shadow Line, by Joseph Conrad. (Doubleday, Page &

The plot of this novel is identical with that of Lord Dunsanys
Poor Old Bill. The difference is that between the realist and
the fantastic. It is very instructive to read them side by side. Joseph Conrad is the greatest master of atmosphere now living, so
far at least as the East is concerned. In fact, I do not know even an
immortal shade who can compare with him.
Rudyard Kipling gives the violence, the coarseness and the
horror, which are very effective from the literary point of view,
but which do not exist in the East, so far as I know.
Stevenson, on the other hand, has everything toned down. He
throws a Scotch mist over the proceedings. Conrad describes the
East, both subjective and objective, in precisely the same terms
as I should do if I had his power of expression. There is no need
to tell the story of the book; any story or no story would have done
just as well. He takes me back ten years to my long lonely walk
across China, to the explosive casuality of Hai-Phong, to the Fata
Morgana which I saw off Hoi-How, to the Akashic obsession of
silence and darkness and stillness which closed in upon us in
those very waters which he describes in The Shadow Line.
Even the captains woman is a living portrait of one whom I knew
in those ensorcelled days, a tuberculous hag of paint and rottenness and vice, who yet possessed the power to awaken the very
fountain of calf-love from its frozen sleep. It is very interesting to
compare Conrad with Stevenson. Stevenson is never happy unless he has the decks awash with blood and slime. Mr. Conrad is
one of those rarest and most supreme of artists who does not need
incident in order to be interesting. He does not fear to use it, but
he does not depend upon it. It is rather significant that England
should have had to go to Hungary for her supreme prose artist.
A. C.

What Every Man and Woman Should Know About the

Bible, by Sidney C. Tapp.
In 1904 I was in a particularly malarious district in Burma.
Death drove his cruisers at a gallop, four abreast: Plague, Cholera, Typhoid, Dysentery.
I remember going down to the bank of the Irrawaddy in the
hope of some breath of fresh air and I came upon the carcass
of a mule, most actively putrescent. I made a mental note to avoid
the repetition of any such experience, but history repeats itself; I
wrote to Mr. Tapp for a copy of his book.
Surely our civilization is pestilential enough without the putrescence of such degenerate paranoiacs. Mr. Tapp wallows in
psychopathy, and gloats; to him the most innocent pleasures seem
foul, and a cemetery excites no idea in his mind but the diggingup of corpses for the delectation of necrophiles.
I leave for the Irrawaddy basin by the first steamer. Meanwhile
oh, any basin, please, Steward! A. C.
Take a tip dont take a Tapp!



Edited by
The Buffalo Courier says:
An absorbing work. Readers who are
interested in the question of a future existence and the power of conveying messages from it to those on earth will find
this volume comforting as well as illuminating.

International Historical Society,


The San Francisco Chronicle:
Confessions of a Barbarian is equally
entertaining whether you are American or
European, the contrast between the countries and the peoples are skilfuly and boldly
drawn, and the writing is, throughout, vigorous and stimulating. It may stir you to
rage, but it will not let you go to sleep.
William Marion Reedy says:
Mr. Viereck goes at the problem of
Europe as if it were terra incognita. As one
of the most startling among les jeunes, he
sees the older civilization from the viewpoint of a man whose conceptions of life
and art are the very antipodes of the thought
of Tolstoi. His boldness, his frank and naked unashamedness, and his rather hectically temperamental treatment of his theme
will be found to be savored with no little of
the daring unconventionality of the writers
of France and Germany. . . . No reader will
doubt that they are the work of a writer of
literary skill and of art-for-arts-sake ideas.
He will be seen to have found in Europe
what he went to seek; and his articles aill
appeal to all persons who yearn to escape
from the commonplace. . . .
Price $1.35 postpaid

The International Book Mart




By The Master Therion.
Suppose a perfect stranger came into your office and proceeded to give orders to your staff.
Suppose a strange woman walked into your drawing room and insisted on being hostess. You
would be troubled by this. Yet, people sit down
and offer the use of their brains and hands (which
are, after all, more important than offices and
drawing rooms) to any stray intelligence that may
be wandering about. People use the Ouija Board
without taking the slightest precautions.
The establishment of the identity of a spirit by
ordinary methods is a very difficult problem, but
the majority of people who play at Occultism do
not even worry about this. They get something,
and it does not seem to matter what! Every inanity, every stupidity, every piece of rubbish, is taken
not only at its face value, but at an utterly exaggerated value. The most appallingly bad poetry
will pass for Shelley, if only its authentication be
that of the planchette! There is, however, a good
way of using this instrument to get what you want,
and that is to perform the whole operation in a
consecrated circle, so that undesirable aliens cannot interfere with it. You should then employ the
proper magical invocation in order to get into
your circle just the one spirit that you want. It is
comparatively easy to do this. A few simple instructions are all that is necessary, and I shall be
pleased to give these, free of charge, to any one
who cares to apply.
It is not particularly easy to get the spirit of a
dead man, because the human soul, being divine,
in not amenable to the control of other human
souls; and it is further not legitimate or desirable
to do it. But what can be done is to pick up the
astral remains of the dead man from the Akasha
and to build them up into a concrete mind. This
operation, again, is not particularly profitable.
The only legitimate work in this line is to get into
touch with the really high intelligences, such as
we call for convenience Gods, Archangels, and
the like. These can give real information as to
what is most necessary for our progress. And it is
written in the Oracles of Zoroaster that unto the
Persevering Mortal the Blessed Immortals are

(The Editor insists on having some patriotic
war poetry. The following specimen is as good,
at least, as any I have yet seen. A. C.)

Millions of our Sammies, each with khaki and

Are going to teach democracy to the Hun.
It is America, I do surely think,
That will put the Hohenzollerns on the blink.
They are going to France, the country of
And theyll kan the kruel Kaiser, you bet.
The Germans all run away when they see them
For they mean to put the enemy on the bum.


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Sir: Is there no limit to Germanys frightful

preparedness? I see the most polluting pacifism
in Shakespeare note, another William, or
mark it well Wilhelm!
Hamlet: Goes it against the main of Poland,
Or for some frontier?
Captain: . . . We go to gain a little patch of
That hath no profit in it but the name.
To pay five ducats, no, I would not farm it.
Hamlet: Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats
Will not debate the question of this straw.
This is the imposthume of much wealth and
That inward breaks, and shows no cause without
Why the man dies.
I trust that all patriots will instantly burn their
Shakespeares if they possess them, as I only
hope they do not; and that they will seize and
destroy the Shakespeares of the German spies.
Yours for Pure Literature,

The Editor of the International.

In answer to the question, Can you tell us anything of the
Great White Brotherhood, known as the A A, Mr. Chas.
Lazenby, of the Theosophical Society, made the following remarks after his public lecture on Magic, at the Vancouver Labor
Temple, July 31, 1917. E. V.
The A A is an Occult order having a definite purpose,
and was started by a man of immense power (The Master
Therion, Ed.), perhaps the greatest living. The place of this great
Being in the Occult Hierarchy is a profound mystery, and he
and his mission are causing a great amount of speculation at the
present time.
Judged by any ordinary standard, he is absolutely and entirely evil, he has broken his occult vows and all codes of morality, openly stating that he has done so and will continue to do
so. He may have a very great purpose in view.
No living person perhaps has had such an influence on occult thought, and wrought so much change therein. He has knowingly taken upon himself a tremendous Karma, but what will be
the ultimate result it is impossible to judge. To all appearance,
as I remarked, he is the personification of evil.
Later, during private conversation, Mr. Lazenby continued:
He is a very wonderful being; an ordinary man like myself
has no possible means of judging what his ultimate motive is.
Looked at from known standards he is evil, but from a distance, in perspective, one may imagine that he is taking this
great Karma for some definite end, he may be the Savior of the
In any case 300 years from now he will be looked upon as
one of the greatest of the Worlds geniuses.
I should not care to have any part in his work myself. You
have this to remember, however, that you are connected with a
genuine Occult order, not a pseudo-occult one such as Heindels

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and others which are worthless.

What has the Master Therion to say about this?
C. S. J.
Mr. Lazenby has so long and so laudably labored upon the
production of canned soup that he has neglected that of the wine
of Iacchus. But I think he only needs to be shown. It is something to be hailed as a possible Savior of the World by ones
avowed and bitter enemies. Nunc dimittis! Anyhow, to be called
the Personification of Evil is not exactly a precise charge. If I
wished to attack Mr. Lazenby, I should define my accusation. I
should say that, under Alpine conditions, the Lentil Soup Squares
dissolve too slowly.
I believe that H. P. Blavatsky was a great adept. I judge her
by her highest, The Voice of the Silence, not by any mistakes
that she may have made in other matters. I consider that her
work has been treacherously ruined by Mrs. Besant, the street
corner atheist, socialist, and advocate of abortion. Of this offense she was actually convicted. Mrs. Besants whole object
seems to have been to prevent disciples from making those bold
experiments which open the gates of the higher planes. I do not
believe that any man or woman can come to ultimate harm by a
passionate will to seek truth. They may go insane. They may be
slain. They may be damned. These are only ordeals which do
them good. If they can stick it out, they will get through. Mrs.
Besant wants to be like conscience, to make cowards of us all.
In my first initiation I was told, Fear is failure. Be thou therefore without fear, for in the heart of the coward virtue abideth
not. Thou hast known me; pass thou on. To prevent men from
confronting the unknown, to side track them with petty drivel
about minor ethics, to deck them out with the stolen regalia of
orders of whose secrets they are profoundly ignorant: these are
the works of the Brothers of the Left Hand Path; and of these I
believe Mrs. Besant to be the greatest now alive.